


The Classic Shenanigans of Two Idiot Boys In Love

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: #onlyingotham, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Attempted Kidnapping, Batfamily Social Media (DCU), Bombing, Boys In Love, Brotherly Love, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Chatting & Messaging, Crime Fighting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Dick Grayson is a Ray of Sunshine, Drowning, Drug Withdrawal, Everyone Is Gay, Explosions, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Good Significant Other Kon-El | Conner Kent, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Homophobic Language, Hugs, Joker Venom (DCU), Kidnapping, Kon-El | Conner Kent Feels, Kon-El | Conner Kent Needs a Hug, Kon-El | Conner Kent-centric, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, News Media, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Press and Tabloids, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Kon-El | Conner Kent, References to Depression, Romantic Comedy, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Sibling Bonding, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepovers, Social Media, Swearing, Teens Dealing With Shit, This is a hodgepodge of basically every continuity known to man, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake Has Mental Health Issues, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake-centric, Timeline What Timeline, they're idiots your honor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 94,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24579031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: In which the papers get hold of the fact thatTimothy Drake-Wayneis dating another boy, Kon is all chill, Tim is no chill at all, the internet is flipping out, and Dick Grayson is quite possibly the greatest big brother of all time.How many kids does Wayne even have !? Like does anyone even know where he’s even getting them all???where did they come fromwhere did they goWhere did they come from Cotton Eye Joe?I hate you all. SO much.Did you see those Waynes? They popped out of the snow! LIKE DAISIES
Relationships: Bart Allen & Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent & Cassie Sandsmark, Martha Kent & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 1858
Kudos: 2218





	1. it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [March Madness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969192) by [MashpotatoeQueen5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5). 



> If you have a better title please tell me. I had this as "smallville" in my drafts and have only just now figured out that is an actual show and will not work. I am suffering.
> 
> Does this fic sound FAMILIAR??? YES??? It's because it's a really long extension from Chapter 26 of my one shot fic "March Madness," for a friend who has been RIDICULOUSLY PATIENT WITH ME. Thank you, friend who shall go unnamed, you are the bomb. 
> 
> *deep breath*
> 
> And thus, without further ado:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Chapter Warnings

They are sitting on a park bench, and the stars are bright and the moon is shining, but Kon can only focus on Tim’s smile. 

The glasses are sitting oddly on his nose and around his ears, new and strange and ‘identity keeping,’ as Clark had called it. Kon’s not really buying it, and by the way Tim is snorting, he’s not either.

“Is he serious? Is he actually, really, serious? Like- they’re just- glasses. They’re just _glasses-”_

And Kon’s laughing too, and their soft conversation is filling the night air. The swings next to them are swaying softly in the wind, and the stars keep twinkling, and Kon can’t stop smiling.

It’s nice, some heavy weight off his shoulders. Tim keeps chuckling, and Kon keeps chuckling with him, and there are no capes or masks or threats or violence. Just them, together, and it feels nice. It feels good. It feels _right._ He feels, for once, like he’s normal.

Like being normal might be a good thing to be.

Tim had been nervous and flighty at the beginning of their date, some six hours earlier, sunglasses over his eyes and hands shoved deep in hoodie pockets as he stepped out of the subway station at Metropolis. But then there had been the museum, and then the movie, and then driving over to a field that was particularly great for fireflies, and then they had gone out and gotten ice cream and now there’s this, and Tim is shining brighter than any star, blue orbs free of shades and hands wrapped around his stomach in laughter.

When the other boy finally manages to stop heaving, he looks up and he grins yet again- _and Kon wishes he was always like this, carefree and happy, not weighed down by stress or tiredness or pain-_ nudges shoulders and says, “For what it’s worth, they don’t look half-bad.”

And Kon can’t stop his own mouth from turning upwards in a smile, and he’s leaning down and pressing a tiny smattering of kisses all over Tim’s face, and Tim’s is laughing and weakly shoving at his chest, asking about _What if someone sees?,_ but they’re out in the middle of nowhere, out in a tiny local playground in Smallville, and really the idea of some crazy guy hiding out in the bushes and taking pictures is ridiculous enough that it makes Kon laugh into the older teen’s mouth.

* * *

Kon wakes up to his cell phone ringing.

Groggily, he picks up and swipes right, pressing it to his ear and muttering a half-asleep, “‘ello,” without even really thinking about it.

Tim’s voice is swearing in his ear, and then apologizing, and Kon is suddenly quite a bit more awake.

“-o sorry, Kon, I thought that we were alone and I _told you that someone might see and-”_

Kon blinks up at his ceiling. It’s painted sky blue, sort of like Tim’s eyes, and he is confused.

Finally, he manages to get out a “What?”

Tim’s voice pauses, freezes mid word and he lets out a small, nervous breath. Kon instantly tenses, because that’s not _right,_ Tim shouldn’t ever feel nervous about him _ever._

“You haven’t seen it yet?”

Kon’s mind flashes to a dozen different possible things his boyfriend could mean, but it only just results in a big ball of confusion.

“...No? ‘s like, eight thirty in the mornin’…”

“Geez, you’d think as a farm boy you’d be the morning person in this relationship.”

The Kryptonian almost wants to snort. He _is_ the morning person in their relationship: once he’s up, he’s up, it just takes him a minute to get there. The only reason Tim is so awake is because he probably never went to sleep in the first place.

“‘s not mornin’, ‘s time to _sleeep…_ ”

Tim laughs, a little high, a little incredulous. It rings in Kon’s ear, and he smiles a little lazily, eyes closed. With Tim laughing like that, it’s almost easy to ignore the sounds of yelling reporters and camera flashes outside-

_Wait, what?_

Kon’s eyes snap open, and he’s out of bed and squinting through the blinds in milliseconds.

There’s a herd of reporters outside the house.

Kon blinks. Takes a step back. His hand finds the phone and he brings it to his ear.

“Tim,” he says, _“Tim.”_

And then-

“It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a half a moment, and then Tim lets loose another snort of laughter. It’s a real laugh this time, the one he only lets out when he’s honestly amused, that little soft puff of air that escapes in a quiet almost half-there chuckle out of Tim’s throat.

It’s a good sound. Kon presses the phone tighter against his ear and backs away from the window, steps out of his room and goes to find the grandparental unit in their bedroom. He knocks, gets no answer, heads downstairs.

His hair is a mess, he’s wearing only a too big tank top that he’s pretty sure used to be Clark’s and a pair of boxer shorts. He stumbles down the worn wooden steps, careens down the narrow hallway corner, and pitches into the kitchen.

(He has such grace in his bones. He has never once been clumsy all his life. If anyone says otherwise, they’re lying. He is a man of _decorum_ and _dexterity._ Such elegance. Much finesse. Very agility. ….. _Yeah_.)

Jonathan and Martha Kent are sitting at the dining table, mugs of coffee in hand. There are homemade cinnamon rolls on the stove top and warm welcoming smiles on their faces, and Jonathan gives a wave with a quick glance away from the morning paper and Martha indicates he should sit down, and so he does.

The sounds of the reporters are even louder down here. Tim can hear them through the phone speakers, and Kon can practically _sense_ the cringe in his boyfriend’s voice as he asks, “Are they crowding around your house? Wait- why am I even asking- _of course_ they’re crowding around your house. Oh my gods, Kon, I’m so sorry-”

Martha vaguely gestures in the direction of his phone, her other hand busy separating three of the rolls from the rest and onto a plate.

“Is that your boy?”

Kon nods, and the woman smiles, mouths _, "He still needs to come over and meet us!"_

Kon waves her off, mouths back _"Working on it,"_ waits for Tim to stop rambling. At this point, he knows that interrupting isn't going to get him anywhere. Best to let the younger get it out of his system and then work through the list of concerns and problems and battle strategies. It was just the way Tim _worked._

“So _basically,_ the first newsfeed started reporting on us at roughly 5:30 this morning- some sort of tiny business that was small enough that even _Bruce’s_ technology wasn’t considering it as a threat. You were being featured as my ‘mysterious gay lover,’” and Conner wasn’t sure how, but he could _definitely_ hear the quotation marks in Tim’s voice, “and everyone was screaming about how I was gay. Around six, the bigger companies caught hold of it, and one of your classmates- who chose to be anonymous in print but _screw that,_ I hacked the company’s mainframe and it’s Dave Parker- he identified you and _apparently_ also gave away your address. The git. I _was_ going to let him off easy and just clog all his emails with spam and prevent him from logging into his Steam account, but that was just an asshole maneuver so now I’m _also_ going to send his parents an email about his subscription to a porn account and let him _suffer.”_

There was a few moments of silence, the impossibly long rant finally pausing as Tim took a moment to breathe. There was also, however, the distinct clacking of keys as the younger teen typed furiously away at something.

“Wait,” says Conner, because _no way,_ “you’re not doing all this on the _bat computer,_ are you?”

Tim snorts.

“Of _course_ I am. We are in a very precarious situation: I think you’re highly underestimating the danger here. We are in _crisis.”_

...Kon El can imagine it. Tim, downing his however-many’th pot of coffee, Stephanie’s Wonder Woman pajama bottoms low on his hips and his massive sleep shirt- the blue one he stole from Dick ages and ages ago and is only just recently starting to not look like an ill fitted dress- hanging off his shoulders. The bags under his eyes are probably enormous, and his legs have probably fallen asleep without him realizing from where he has crossed them underneath him on the big monitor chairt.

He probably looks like a mess. A sleep deprived, greasy haired, overworked mess of a human being.

…...He probably looks _adorable._

Kon is sort of tempted to fly over just to take a peak.

But no, no, bad idea, especially with all the people and _cameras_ parked right outside the door. 

He doesn’t think Tim would take well to being called _adorable_ well, either.

To distract him from the bad thoughts, Kon shoves a roll into his mouth, chews on it, speaks around it. Martha gives him glare for that, smacking him lightly on the back of the head with her spoon as she makes her way to the kitchen sink. 

Smiling sheepishly at her, he swallows, and then tries again.

“You just like using the big monitor, ya nerd. Besides, it’s not _that_ big a deal. I mean, it sucks, obviously, but like- we’ll get through it. No biggie.”

There’s a groan of complete despair on the other side of the phone, more worthy of a full out alien invasion than a relationship reveal, but Kon doesn’t say anything about that, either. Just sort of hums and piles on the glaze, grabbing another roll to keep the half remaining on his plate company. 

John Kent turns to the next page of his newspaper. Martha washes dishes. Outside, reporters scream in a clashing sort of harmony with the usual morning bird song.

 _“You don’t understand,”_ Tim hisses through the phone, and the typing is louder than ever, “I have worked very, very hard in avoiding any sort of public reputation whatsoever- it was _perfect._ I never did anything to draw any attention and so the media always ignored me because I was _boring,_ especially in contrast with like, the little demon and my gods, _Dick,_ and it’s only going to get _worse_ as more people wake up and see the headlines and-”

Suddenly, the other teen falls silent. Kon waits long enough that he begins to grow concerned, before he hears it.

In a near silent, completely horrified whisper, Tim speaks.

 _“Shit._ I’ve become the problem child.”

And Kon- laughs. Can’t help it. Yes, it’s a bit unnerving that there are a bunch of people outside who all want to get into his business and will probably respect no boundaries doing so. And, yes, it’s probably going to be trickier going incognito now with his face plastered all over the news. But hearing Tim flip out about it through the phone- hysteria fueled with sleep deprivation and probably _way_ too much coffee to be healthy- and sitting in the calm of the Kent farmhouse kitchen, he’s not too worried, can’t even bring himself to try.

On the other end of the line, Tim is complaining about him being a horrible boyfriend and about the entirety of his life in general- _“The internet is flipping out. Tumblr is- actually, no, no- I don’t want to know about Tumblr. But they’re calling me gay, Kon, I’m not even a homosexual, I am bisexual and this is so unfair, this is biphobia, this is bi erasure- would you please stop laughing?”-_ and then moves on to swearing up a storm again because, _“Shit, shit, shit- what do you think Bruce is going to say? This is so_ not _how I want to come out-”_

That gives the Kryptonian a pause.

“Wait a second- doesn’t Bruce already know we’re dating?”

“...Yes? Probably. I never explicitly told him but he knows? It’s the principle of the thing- _stop laughing-”_

Ten minutes later, breakfast is winding down, and so is Tim. The other teen seems to finally be calming down after cycling through a massive assortment of topics and worries and a long list of insults that Kon knew he didn’t mean.

But then Tim says, “Seriously, though, seriously,” and he knows that, for all of the Boy Wonder’s joking, there are actual underlying concerns and repressed fears that need to be addressed, “What are we going to do?”

Kon hums, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder blade as he helps Martha wash up. Jonathan is putting aside have s new paper and grabbing a towel for drying.

“Well,” he says, scrubbing at a particularly tough spot on the plate, “do you have any ideas?”

“Hmmmm… I suppose we could turn off the security protocols at Arkham for an hour: breakouts always get great news coverage and it would distract all the reporters from zoning in on our love life-”

….Maybe he isn’t at quite a serious headspace as Connor thinks.

“Tim.”

“Okay, okay- It was just a joke. Sort of.”

And there, _there,_ a nervous little tremor, practically nonexistent if you aren’t _really_ looking for it, coating over his boyfriend’s tone. He feels almost honoured, the fact that he’s gotten to a point in his relationship with the other hero that Tim allowed the vulnerability into his voice at all. Quickly, Kon excused himself back to his bedroom and sat on his bed, thankful for the slight decrease in noise from the outside world.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know. We’ll get through this, just like we got through everything else. I mean- we’re not _that_ interesting, right? The press will move on from us eventually.”

He can hear Tim breathing, breathing, in and out, in and out.

“Right. Right. This will all blow over. I’ll put out a statement, we’ll lay low for a little while, something more important and flashy will distract them and then everything will go back to normal.”

“Right.”

A moment of silence.

Then-

“Kon, what if Bruce tries to give me The Talk? Shit, Kon, _Batman,_ he’s _Batman, Batman might want to talk to me about the Birds and the Bees, Kon-_ ”

He struggles to keep a straight face, stares up at the blue ceiling, and says, in his best proximity of Batman’s voice, “They’re disappearing at an alarming rate.”

It’s all it takes, and Conner can hear Tim’s laughter coming from over the line, and he just closes his eyes and laughs with him.


	2. sucks to be straight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely NO CLUE how social media works. Please take my humble toils.
> 
> CHAPTER WARNING: Some mild inappropriate words towards a minor

_ I knew it I knew it you all fucking doubted me but I  _ **_knew it-_ ** _ The Waynes are all GAY.  _

_ just because one is doesn’t mean they all are tho? _

_ Shhsh your face- let me live- this is only the first of many _

_ Okay but who the hell is this guy? Conner Kent? What kind of name is that?  _ **_Is he worthy of my son?_ **

_ New username > TimCon _

_ awww, but it’s actually like a really cute pic? Look at em- i don’t think i’ve ever seen timothy  _ **_ever_ ** _ smile like that <3 <3 <3 _

_ *slightly disappointed that my best chance at marrying rich and living the high life is gone* _

_ Ha- sucks to be straight! _

**_20GAYTEEN!_ **

_ okay I know that all the Waynes are like, geneticaly disposed to being good looking- despite the fact that they’re not related at all- but like, look at Drake’s date. That is some purebred American  _ **_beauty_ **

_ look at you, being so happy and finding yourself a boyfriend. you did so good my son <3 <3 <3 _

_ Okay, okay, one of the Waynes is gay we  _ **_get it already_ **

_ leave us to our happiness, anon  _

_ Everyone’s just jumping to stupid conclusions because of one ridiculous photograph. It was probably edited or something. Stop trying to make everything about being homosexual. It’s messed up. _

_ New username > waynesarebetterthanthekardashians _

_ I’ll drink to that *raises bottle of whiskey* _

_ I like Grayson better :/ _

_ Hey everyone this is just a quiet reminder to treat these kids with respect. Don’t approach them in public and make a nuisance of yourself. Don’t take pictures when it’s clear they’re not expecting/wanting them taken. Don’t ask personal questions. Leave them be. _

_ i feel so validated oh my gods- look at my smol gay son-  _

_ How many kids does Wayne even  _ **_have_ ** _!? Like does anyone even know where he’s even getting them all??? _

_ where did they come from _

_ where did they go _

_ Where did they come from Cotton Eye Joe? _

_ I hate you all. SO much. _

_ Did you see those Waynes? They popped out of the snow!  _ **_LIKE DAISIES_ **

_ New username > GayWayneBoys _

_ someone write some fic. I need it…. for science  _ _ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) _

_ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) _

_ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) _

_ stop… pls… stop _

_ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) _

_ why. _

_ THEY ARE SO FREAKING CUTE I’M DYING I’M DEAD I’M DECEASED SO LONG WORLD TELL MY WIFE I LOVE HER _

_ Why is everyone assuming they’re both gay? They could be bi or pan or QPP’s for all we know _

_ [QPP’s?] _

_ [Queerplatonic partners] _

_ [Ohhhh thank you] _

_ reblog if you stanned Tim from the beginning instead of just showing up once it was revealed he was gay  _ _ (¬_¬) _ __

_ Why do you ahve to get so down on people being excited about a bit of representation?  _

_ i’m just saying it’s stupid because suddenly so many people are like “oh I love Tim! Tim is my favorite Wayne!” just because he’s gay and that’s stupid and kind of messed up _

_ i love them i love them i lov ethem i love them i love them-  _

_ shit but what if Brucie didn’t know what if Timmy was just outed and the old man doesn’t take it well1!??!? _

_ WRITE A FIC _

_ I think it’s fine- Ol’ wayne has been donating to LGBTQIA+ causes for like 20+ years. _

_ I love the guys earing? Classy boi _

_ Look at the way they’re holding hands. Look at him, smushing kisses. Look at my perfect summer children Look at themmmmm  _ **_aslkadfgghostnloolocanktcopeajlksdfghlaf_ **

_ anyone who can make Tim smile like that is cool in my books <3 _

_ They are never living this down ever. Three hundred million years from now someone is going to look their names up and all there is going to be is  _ **_this_ ** _. _

* * *

“...In conclusion, the pictures released in this morning’s papers are really of me and my boyfriend, Conner Kent. I respectfully ask people to respect our privacy, and to also please leave the Kent Family’s farm alone, because it  _ is  _ private property and I would  _ hate _ for anyone to be sued.”

Tim smiles blandly, feeling his heart give little palpitations somewhere deep in his chest. It was kind of ridiculous, because he’s quite literally a superhero, but at the same time it would always be nerve wrecking to come out as bisexual to anyone who happened to be tuning in on any number of new channels, and then anyone else in the world who wanted to take the time and look things up for themselves.

_ Smile,  _ he thinks,  _ this will all be over soon. _

“Any questions?”

Immediately, there’s a cacophony in the press conference room. Tim blinks, lights flashing all over, pretends to be unable to decipher any individual question with all the different voices, to be small and meek.

Some small part of him might actually feel a bit panicky about all these eyes focused his way, but that part has been put in time out and is concurrently being ignored.

It almost makes him want to grind his teeth, because the  _ Timothy Drake-Wayne  _ persona is wicked smart but, unfortunately for the real person beneath, very, very weak.

It was crucial for secret identities, but  _ still. Sometimes it just irritated him. _

It  _ really  _ doesn’t help that he hasn’t slept for two days straight.

He looks behind him, hoping Bruce will step in and  _ help,  _ but the man just stares imperviously back. Tim’s pretty sure that this is his punishment for getting caught on camera, or maybe the older man just thinks it will build character.

Either way, the betrayal runs deep.

Clearing his throat, he taps on the microphone once, twice, pitches his voice a little higher and-.

“Um, one at a time, please? Hello? I can’t hear what any of you are saying when you are all speaking at once…”

Several minutes and a severe headache later, Tim has cajoled the crowd of reporters into quietly raising their hands and taking turns, spending the whole time feeling like he’s wrangling a class of particularly rambunctious kindergarteners. It was so chaotic it's almost a relief when he picks out his first interrogator, a slim woman with hair in a neat, tight bun and makeup that was clearly put on in a hurry. She was probably assigned the story last minute...

“When did you and Mr. Kent first meet?”

“We met at one Bruce’s galas: he came with a relative of his who was reporting on the event and we hit it off…”

Murmured words and scratching pencils. Tim resists the urge to tap his feet with impatience, just stands still and calm, the picture of a good socialite boy.

“How long have you been dating Mr. Kent?”

“Going on seven months now.”

“How did the Wayne household respond to the knowledge you were in a relationship with another man?”

“They were all very supportive. It helped that they all knew Conner from previous visits. We were friends for a while before we even considered dating as an option”

And so on and so forth. Question after question, answer after answer. Some just wanted the ‘juicy details,’ some were curious about how he was dealing with backlash and such, others still wanted to know about how it felt to be a ‘model of aspiration for LGBTQ Youth,’ or whatever.

Tim answers as best as he can, hoping that his face doesn’t show just how ready he is to leave the place and sleep for a thousand years, or drop kick in the face the next reporter who calls his coming out as “brave” when he really had no choice in the matter at all.

And then- suddenly-

“When was the last time you and your boyfriend committed to fornification?”

Tim blinks, blinks, face flushing bright red, because  _ no way,  _ no way was he just asked  _ that,  _ what the hell, what the hell,  _ what the hell- _

_ ABORT! ABORT! CALL IN BACKUP! _

Deer in the headlights look seems like the best option. Eyes wide, lips a tiny bit parted, small step back and brows just ever so  _ slightly  _ scrunched together,  _ aaaand,  _ to top it all off-

“Um. I- Heh- um- Ex- excuse me? I-”

Stuttering.

_ Three… Two… One…. _

His view of the room is blocked by a wide expanse of black suit: Bruce Wayne to the rescue, right on cue. Sometimes, Tim looks back at his time growing up in the Wayne manor and can’t help but be  _ extortionately  _ grateful that he wasn’t the first kid that had been taken in, because he would have never had figured out how to trigger his guardian’s protective parental instincts without all of Dick’s training.

“I will remind you all,” and  _ maybe  _ Tim overdid it because Bruce’s voice is more deep and dark Batman than billionaire playboy at the moment, “that my  _ son _ is sixteen years old and a  _ minor,  _ and should be treated as such. There will be no inappropriate discussion within or outside these walls. Am I clear?”

Half meant and slightly guilty murmurs all around, and the teen swipes at his face under the guise of wiping at his eyes so that nobody can see him smirk.


	3. Shut up, Metropolis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Chapter Warnings

_ awww but look at him the poor bby- it must be really overwhelming to suddenly have the whole world just looking in on your relationship and judging you about it, especially if you weren’t ready to tell anyone :( _

_ I stan one (1) protective father _

_ HE’S BISEXUAL TAKE THAT YOU LITTLE SHITS _

_ i kneeeew itttttt _

_ Do we have any more information on the Kent kid? I need to know if he’s worthy of  _ **_My Son._ **

_ umm i don’t want to start trouble or anything but i thought the whole point of teh conference was to ask people to respect their privacy??? _

_ But- but- my  _ **_S o n_ ** _ - _

_ Holy shit I can’t believe that people were like?? Actually invading private property and camping out in front of that other kid’s house? Like what the hell? How desperate do you ahve to be!?!? _

_ I know right? It’s disgusting. _

_ someone call batman and sick’em on the vultures. _

_ Or Superman! _

_ Shut up, Metropolis  _

_ Okay but like can we just appreciate how quickly ol’Brucie went into overprotective Dad mode? Like all Tim had to do was :( and suddenly Wayne was all just  _ _ (ง'̀-'́)ง _

_ 28:03 _

_ WHO WAS THE JERK THAT MADE TIM CRY I JUST WANT TO TALK _

_ I DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE THAT!!! OH MY GODS NO MY POOR BABY _

_ #TimProtectionSquadAssemble _

**_20BITEEN! 20BITEEN! 20BITEEN!!_ **

_ screw each and every person who’s saying that Tim is just pretending to get attention. Like? Can u even imagine the kind of pressure he’s under?? Can u even imagine being outed to the whole freakin world and just having  _ everyone  _ judge you?? Why the hell would anyone ever want to go through that? _

_ I thought the Kent boy was hot and then I learned he was from Metropolis. ¬_¬  _

_ I expected better from you, Drake, I really did. How dare you betray your city. _

_ WAIT- WHAT?? HE’S FROM  _ **_WHERE???_ **

_ *hisses* _

_ Wait- what’s so bad about Metropolis? _

_...you’re not from Gotham, are you? _

_ Nooo? I’m from Star. _

_ That explains it. _

_ EXPLAINS WHAT!? _

_ let it go, @HurdlinTurtlin, the gothamites are just jealous that we have superman and are too pathetic to admit it _

_ Oh yeah- so jealous of a superhero who destroys half the city every time he has to save someone and can be defeated by a  _ **_rock_ ** _ … ◔_◔ _

_ Can we?? Not?? Today?? Please?? Guys??? _

_ Awww but actually it’s kind of cute? Like- Romeo and Juliet or something. Star crossed lovers despite the animosity between their two cities. _

_...somebody fic it. _

_ Seconded! _

_ Tim’s bisexual! I’m so Happy!!!! <3 <3 <3 _

_The guy who asked_ **that** _question was totally out of line though. Like? What the hell? Tim is just a baby. How dare he- Bruce was totally in the right for getting angry._

_ Isn’t Timothy like? Sixteen? _

_ Exactly. Basically a baby.  _

_ every time i get a chance to see Wayne being protective of his kids my life gets one year longer. like- you go, dude. what a legend. _

_ My crops are flourishing my skin is clear my vision restored my grades are up _

__

_ i didn’t even think about the whole being outed thing and now i feel really bad :( _

_ This is almost as good as that time Bruce got  _ **pissed** _ at that guy who tried to make moves on Dick Grayson when he was pretty clearly drunk. Do you guys remember that? _

_ Kudos to bruce- that guy was a creep _

_ Real question though- who do you think is the little spoon? _

_ Are you kidding me? Kent is like, twice Tim’s size. _

_ … I… am….struggling... to raise a counter argument. But at the same time… and hear me out here… _

_ *staring out the window like a romantically inclined Victorian lady* but when will my husband Duke Thomas Wayne come back from the war? _

_ Can you imagine Tim and Conner meeting though? Like- Tim being the little social butterfly at a gala being all suave and put together and finding Conner standing awkwardly in the corner and just- bonding and getting closer? Can you imagine when they first admitted their feelings for each other? The first hand hold? The first kiss? I’m giving myself feels- HELP _

_ *dying whale noises* _

_ FICC IT _

_ All the wayne kids have Bruce wrapped around their little fingers. _

_ Tim just looks so shocked and embarresed?? Like? Look at the way the blood drains from his face and his eyes widen. Look at his tiny little step back.  _ **_LOOK AT IT._ ** _ Like- child. Such a smol bean. Such a cinnamon roll. Somebody protect him. _

_ Okay but if I find anyone of you writing anything inappropriate about those poor kids  _ **_I’m telling Batman._ **

_ Tell Batman and Bruce Wayne. Double whammy. _

_ Oooooh- good point. Strike the fear of god in them. I like your style _

_ Thank you. I try. _

_ I still like Dick Grayson more. :/ _

* * *

Dick doesn’t look up from where he and Damian are watching  _ How To Train Your Dragon  _ when Tim gets home, but he does raise a fist so that the teen can tap it in accordance to their ‘super secret handshake’ of victory, the one that is to be completed whenever one of them successfully manages to activate the ‘DaddyBats’ instinct in Bruce without getting caught,  _ especially  _ if it manages to make ol’ Brucie break character.

What’s surprising is that, somehow, no matter how many years into adulthood Dick gets, he still manages to stay ahead on the activation status. It’s a magical power that Tim doesn’t quite understand, even if the older boy insists that it’s just because he uses the wide eyed  _ I’m a smol, defenseless, and utterly innocent bean _ look a lot more than Tim does, and thus gets more results.

Which… Point. It’s true that usually Tim doesn’t really have any need to get out of trouble. 

What’s  _ not  _ surprising is the way that Damian looks on in interest, probably desperate for anything other than Dreamworks, Disney, and Pixar at this point, even if Dick is  _ insistent  _ that he has to watch all of them at least once, nevermind that most kids never do that in the first place.

(The younger teen is half convinced that Dick just wants an excuse to marathon animated movies. He really wouldn’t put it past him.)

Tim doesn’t particularly care. He went through the same ‘assimilation’ when he first moved in. All he wants is to be present when Damian is forced to watch  _ The Bee Movie _ , because it’s going to be hilarious and he has plans of installing cameras to record it for future blackmail.

He might even make a whole thing of it and set up a streaming at the Tower next time he visits the Titans. The thought is  _ very  _ tempting, mostly because he can already hear Cass snorting.

But first the viewing has to happen. And first he has to get through this  _ ungodly complicated handshake. _

The demon’s probably doing his best to commit the steps to memory to later on look up on the internet in some round about way of understanding what the hell is going on around him at all times.

…. Tim has hacked the kid’s computer. Sometimes, he  _ almost  _ feels bad for the little demon, because there comes a point in one’s lifetime when all things are deserving of pity, and that moment comes when one looks up  _ snuggles _ into a google search bar and is perfectly confused by the answer.

Dick, when he notices the kid has no clue what’s going on around him, usually gives him the heads up. When Tim notices… well…

Let’s just say he’s not quite over the multiple assassination attempts and sometimes this is one of the few ways that he can let the demon  _ suffer.  _

_ Bedsides,  _ Tim thinks as he stacks his fists on top of Dick’s and moves into the more complicated slicing and dicing movements,  _ this, at least, won’t be on the internet. _

Dick laughs at something on the screen, hands still moving with perfect fluidity with Tim’s motions, and the teen can’t help but mutter a curse when he almost messes up: how the hell Dick manages to do a three minute secret handshake without looking  _ once  _ will always be beyond him.

Damian watches them through squinted eyes as they do the grand finale, and then Tim walks out of the room and Dick settles his hand back down by the younger boy’s side, all without a single word being said.

_ Batspeak: it’s an art form. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short- but there will be a _special Wednesday update_ for your viewing pleasure!
> 
> Also, Chapter 5 next week is just five pages straight writing with no social media, so there's that to look forward to :3
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Advantages to being an older sibling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers can have one small mid-week chapter. As a treat. :3  
> No Chapter Warnings

“Drake.”

Tim sighs, closing his eyes for a weary second before spinning in his chair to look fully at his small maniacal younger brother. All he wants in this life is four uninterrupted hours by himself. Just him and the company of his unfinished report, his unfortunately warm red bull, and Bruce’s ridiculously comfortable t-shirt, successfully stolen from the dryer.

That’s  _ all he wants. _

But no. He’s an older brother to a tiny asshole, who is currently looking at him with the intensity of a thousand suns. 

“What do you want, Damian?”

The younger boy is glaring at him, petulant frown upon his lips, and Tim stares back completely unimpressed, one eyebrow raised.

A long, uncomfortable silence ensues.

And then-

“I require your…  _ assistance _ .”

More silence. Tim takes a rather concerning amount of pleasure in watching the younger boy squirm.

“... _ with? _ ”

Damian huffs. Crosses his arms. Uncrosses them and glares at him.

And then, just when Tim is about to give up on the younger boy entirely, finally,  _ finally  _ he lets out what he wants in a voice that is hardly louder than murmur, and definitely closer to a growl than it had any right to be.

“Tell me what strange ritualistic handshake occurred between you and Grayson- and what it implies.”

He blinks. Blinks. He  _ knows  _ that Dick would tell the kid in an instant if he asked, but he also knows that the kid’s pride won’t let him do something so simple as letting his favourite human  _ teach  _ him things.

So Tim taps his chin, as if considering, and then smiles brightly at the other boy.

“No, don’t think I will. Goodbye!”

Then he spins back around in his chair and faces his computer screen once more, giving himself a self satisfied smirk when Damian’s outrage practically  _ oozes  _ all around him.

“Drake-”

“Nope! Farewell!”

“I-”

“ _ Au revoir!” _

“How dare-”

_ “Sayonara!” _

“Father-”

_ “Auf Wiedersehen!” _

Damian snarls and storms out of his room, slamming the door behind him. Tim waits approximately five seconds to make sure there isn’t going to be any surprise attacks, then allows himself a little chuckle and turns back to his report, intent on getting it done before morning.

There are some advantages to being an older sibling after all. 

Being a little shit is one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My older sibling has literally done this to me. This is based on a true story.  
> Feel my pain, Damian, feel my pain.


	5. should have just judo flipped them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanna say we're on the fifth chapter out of like, thirty, and there has already been A HUNDRED COMMENTS!  
> Wow, everyone! The love and support for this fic is outstanding and I'm so, so happy you're all enjoying!
> 
> CHAPTER WARNING: Attempted Kidnapping, Homophobic Language

Kon might be a little nervous about having the whole world know he's in a relationship with a Wayne after all.

It’s all well and good for Tim, who does all his freaky  _ I’m a super genius  _ online college classes in the comfort of his home. However, it’s a  _ bit  _ more complicated for him, because Conner Kent is supposed to be an ordinary teenage boy who is  _ ordinary  _ and goes to high school.

He gets accosted by reporters three times before he even gets on the bus, and every occurrence he gets an absurd sort of pleasure of putting up the finger and yelling, “I’M A MINOR! LEAVE ME ALONE OR GET SUED BY BRUCE WAYNE!” at the top of his lungs, and then pushing up his glasses and making his merry way down the lane.

Tim told him that he should get the reporters off his back by telling them so. The younger boy probably hadn’t meant it in  _ quite  _ such a form or fashion, or with half as much yelling or offensive gestures, but, well, there you go, the deed is done.

The busride is filled with chatter and people coming over to ask questions and get an ‘in’ on Kon’s secret life as the boyfriend of a son of a multi-billionaire who was probably themselves a millionaire through  _ allowance money alone.  _ Some want to comment on the fact that he’s gay. Others just want to be seen next to a ‘famous person’. Who even knows.

It's cool. Kon likes people, has fun with attention. He likes talking about his boyfriend and he likes watching people’s eyes widen when he mentions some of the stupid stuff he’s seen the Wayne family do on the whole.

Someone asks what it's like dating a put together nerd. He's momentarily confused, until he remembers, right,  _ oh yeah, _ Tim might be the butt-kicking mess of a human being when he’s just being  _ him,  _ but the persona he puts off to the world is actually very goody two shoes and smarty pants-like.

He wonders how the world might react to the fact that Tim’s bedroom is one of the messiest places on the planet, that he dropped out of high school in favour of a GED and point blank  _ refused  _ to go to a non-online college because of how boring learning from other people was to him- his brain moved too fast, and anything they tried to teach him was already learned or understood far easier by simply reading a textbook or watching a tutorial- and that in his free time he shuts himself up in his room like a hermit and bingewatches Star Trek like there was no tomorrow.

He doesn’t say anything identity revealing, obviously, and he doesn’t mention anything embarrassing about  _ Tim,  _ obviously- the younger boy would kill him- but, like, these are his peers and stuff. They’re cool.

It’s fun.

There are some downsides of course. People who come up to talk about the whole 'fornification’ comment-  _ and seriously, what the hell was that _ \- and chicken out at the last second. Homophobes. Whole groups of kids that Kon is pretty sure collectively said three words to him in the last three years before the report, all suddenly wanting to be his best friend. A couple of  _ real  _ friends actually being hurt that he didn't tell them.

He rolls with the punches. He deals. When someone makes stupid comment, Kon tunes in on the sound of Tim's heartbeat and goes from there. He rolls his eyes at the fake friends and explains, as patiently as he can, to real friends how nerve wrecked and paranoid Tim was about being caught, how he  _ wanted  _ to tell, really, but for the sake of his boyfriend’s piece of mind he kept it secret.

It works out. Kon is a lot more popular than usual, but it's all in all a good time, and actually had nothing to some of the crowds that could amass around the Teen Titans when they were heroing.

He hopes Tim is having as good a day as he is.

* * *

Tim is having just about the worst day of his entire life.

(Well, not really, but at  _ the same time- c’mon-) _

The plan is to keep on the down low and not give anyone anything to pay attention to, and thus let Tim slip back into the limelight.

And so, of course, everything goes horribly wrong and obnoxiously attention grabbing almost immediately. Really, with his luck, Tim should just be happy there haven’t been any explosions.

It starts like this:

It’s the first day after the press conference, and all day everything has gone wrong. The reporters ambushed him when he was walking into Wayne Enterprises, someone spilled their soda on his suit so he had to change into his spare one, Bruce needed him to cover for him on one of the evening meetings, he forgot to save one of the important treaties he was writing up, and  _ someone _ has stolen all of his pens.

(Bets on Jason.)

So here he is, walking to the nearest cafe, because  _ of course,  _ of all the days for it to occur, the coffee shop at Wayne Enterprises closes down. It’s three in the afternoon, the sun is just starting to set in the distant horizon, and he has at least another three hours to go before the bloody board meeting finishes and he can go home.

One day, Tim is going to snap. He’s sure of it. One day he’s just going to skateboard into the conference room and make lazy hoops around the table while all the grown businessmen have to sit there and stew in utter confusion.

But, unfortunately, not today. Which means he’s going to need his caffeine fix.

And when Tim needs his caffeine fix, he  _ gets  _ his caffeine fix.

He’s changed from his suit to some quasi casual clothes, sunglasses balanced on his nose and coat hood pulled low, takes the back entrance out of the building and the backway to the liquid supplier of livelihood and overall comprehension of humankind.

Kon tells him he has a problem. He  _ might  _ be right. But there’s no way in hell that Tim is ever going to admit it.

So there he is, marching determinedly along the sidewalk with a sort of single minded focus that Cassie says sometimes scares her, and someone bumps into him.

Which is… fine. Really. It happens.

He resists the urge to judo flip them onto the ground.

_ It’sfineIt’sfineIt’sfine- _

Except, of course, _ then _ there’s suddenly a gun jammed uncomfortably between his ribs and a voice whispering in his ears to come quietly  _ or else,  _ and his heart beat picks up a bit even as Tim makes his eyes go round and wide and his feet stumble and does what the thug says.

Internally, Tim takes a moment to evaluate how much actual danger he is in and to calm his fight or flight instincts before cursing at the heavens, because  _ seriously.  _ He is literally the only person in the world who is unlucky enough to have to deal with an attempted kidnapping or whatever the hell this is on something as mundane as a caffeine run.

Okay. No. That's not true, not even really fair. But it's still  _ frustrating. _

They've turned the corner into one of Gotham’s many convenient dark alleyways, and if Tim squints he can just see the outline of a getaway car tucked away in the far corner. Someone slams him into a wall, and Tim suppresses a sigh, shifts his weight so the shove leaves impact but doesn’t really hurt, and longs for the coffee shop three blocks away.

_ Ah well. To work! _

He pitches his voice three octaves too high.

“W-what are you guys doing? What is it you want?”

He really should have just judo flipped them. 

The guys all laugh, shove him around, and Tim sputters and yelps even as he internally laments, because if he was in costume these guys would be  _ down  _ already- he can tell by the way they freaking  _ walk  _ and mess around that they’re unprofessional and sloppy- and he’d be off enjoying his caffeine and all would be well with the universe.

All the while, he keeps an eye on the gun, because sloppy- however easy it makes it to track and defeat- also means  _ careless,  _ and Tim  _ so  _ does not want to be dealing with a bullet wound right now.

He can already imagine the headlines.

Just as he’s wondering about the best course of action- calling for help, making a run for it, or just going with it and escaping later, saying Batman rescued him- there’s the sound of running feet and Kon bursts into the alleyway, fists raised, and adrenaline thrumming.

“Hey! Get the  _ hell  _ away from my boyfriend!” he yells, loud, and Tim  _ almost  _ winces and the urge flares up to shush him and check the windows, because he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to deal with witnesses.

But he doesn't. Can’t.  _ Timothy Drake-Wayne  _ doesn’t gesticulate wildly at surrounding buildings and make shushing sounds and exasperated noises in the middle of being rescued of the ‘very scary’ kidnapping. 

...neither does  _ Tim _ , really- he’s more prone to dead pan  _ you messed the fuck up  _ glares- but that’s besides the point.

Instead, he grips at the forearm suddenly holding onto his upper arms and tries to look scared while he internally shoots daggers at his  _ stupid, idiot, wonderful  _ boyfriend with his stupid adorable glasses almost flying off his stupid perfect nose and his scrunched up brows accenting his stupid perfect cheekbones.

The guy who’s holding him is backing up which is- iffy. To say the least. Now that Kon’s here he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to have people start shooting to get rid of the witnesses, and then have a guy who’s skin can’t get penetrated just sort of be left standing there with holes in his shirt. Or, even worse-

“This is none of your business, _ faggot-  _ get the hell out or your little boy toy here is gonna have his brains blown out!”

A gun gets jammed against his ear, cold metal pressing uncomfortably against delicate cartilage, and despite himself his heart jumps up a notch because this is definitely the worst of the two options, which involves sixteen year old Timothy Drake Wayne being shot in an alleyway with his brains splattered on the walls and acting like a stupid conclusion of a character arch because first Bruce’s parents, then his father, and now…

It’s not going to happen. The possibilities of it happening are so minimally small that they shouldn’t even filter as concerns. Tim was trained by  _ Batman,  _ he's a hero in his own right. He can get out of this hold in three second flat and disable the rest of the guys in under two minutes.

But still.

_ Still. _

You don’t mess around with guns. You can’t stop that flare of adrenaline when one is pointed at you, at the ones you care about. It’s not how these things  _ work.  _ Survival instincts are what keep you alive in the field, not complacency.

Conner is frowning, fists gripping tight enough to go white. Tim’s pretty sure it has as much to do with the gun held to his head as the derogatory names. 

Or, more unrealistically, maybe it was the fact that Tim was designated as boy toy when in a bad romance comedy it would be quite the opposite, considering the fact that he’s  _ rich  _ and Kon can go approximately  _ point two milliseconds _ before pointing out his muscles-

A guy mutters something into his phone. 

... _ right. _

Tim blinks. Refocuses.

He makes eye contact with his boyfriend, trades the smallest of significant glances to have ever been.

Purposefully, the smaller teen stumbles, tripping over his own feet and tangling them up with the thug holding onto him, sending the gun flying and giving Conner the clear to charge.

One of the guys throws a punch, and Conner swings with it expertly, making it seem as if the hit actually had an impact on him. Internally, Tim does a little mental cheer, because the two of them had worked on that for  _ ages  _ so that if ever a situation like this arose, and Conner had to fight in his civilian identity, then there would be no one wondering why the hell some teen was solid as steel and make the obvious conclusion.

Perceptions. It was all about playing with people’s perceptions.

Speaking of…

Tim picks himself up and makes a mad scramble for the gun, smacking it effectively against the back of the lead thug’s head in what would appear to be a wildly untrained and adrenaline fueled movement to anyone watching.

The minute the guy’s down, Tim drops the thing like it was burning him and kicks it away.

One more to go, and he’s inching towards Tim in hopes of pulling off the hostage situation that the first guy failed. Tim just mentally sighs and flits around so that he’s behind his boyfriend- _poor defenseless Timothy Drake-Wayne! So smol! So scared!_ _ ~~Yeah, right~~ -_ and watches as Conner outright rugby tackles the man, making an exaggerated wince when there’s the loud crack of a head smashing against concrete.

All he had wanted was to place an order at a cafe. A tall cup of joe, black like his soul. Or a latte. Or tea, even. Tim doesn’t discriminate: he loves and accepts all kinds of caffeine.

…Maybe with a scone. A scone sounds nice. He thinks he accidentally skipped lunch.

And then his vision is blocked by concerned blue eyes and Kon-El is in front of him, hands fluttering up and down his arms and torso- frowning at the bruise quickly forming on his upper bicep- before finally settling them on his cheeks, cupping his face.

The other boy’s hands, Tim realizes, are trembling slightly.

_ “Are you okay?  _ I heard your heart go haywire and-"

He’s kinda shocked by the intensity of the words, but Tim takes Kon El’s palms in his own and squeezes as tight as he can, knowing it won’t hurt, and says, pointedly, “Yeah, yeah, of course. Are  _ you  _ okay?”

He’s hyper aware of how exposed they are, of how anyone could be watching, about how someone very probably  _ is  _ watching. It makes his skin prick and tingle, makes the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end.

Conner huffs, leans down to negate the scant few inches he has on him and bumps their foreheads together, and something inside of Tim curls up warm and tight and oddly happy, despite the fact that they’re in some dingy alleyway in Crime Alley and Tim’s would-be kidnappers are strewn all around them.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I just- I hate how- It’s so  _ stupid. ” _

Tim frowns.

“What?”

“The term. The-  _ faggot.  _ It’s stupid, because I’ve  _ heard  _ it before, I live in  _ Smallville,  _ it’s not like people are super open minded or anything but like- it’s one thing when they know you and another when they’re just complete and utter strangers.”

He still hasn’t let go of Tim’s face. His hands are warm against his cheeks, still trembling, and Tim shifts, squeezes his fingers again, breathes.

He very carefully doesn’t say he hasn’t been on his twitter since the press conference, since that first article, that he’s kind of afraid to. He very carefully doesn’t say that he hates how closely people look at him now, how exposed it makes him, how years and years of experience still hasn’t prepared him for the sheer level of  _ attention.  _ How guilty he feels, for dragging Conner down with him, Conner who doesn’t deserve  _ any  _ of this.

Not now. Later, maybe. When they’re alone, somewhere safe, somewhere Tim can let his guard down, or at least feel like he can try.

As is, the public display of physical affection is about his limit, and the words come stumbling out awkward and stilted.

Tim’s never been very good at emotions.

But he’ll try. 

For Kon, he’ll try.

“Sorry. It’s messed up. They’re just assholes. They’re all just assholes. Ignore them. Just- ignore them.”

Conner smirks at him, teasing.

“Did you blow a gasket, getting that out?”

“Shut up.”

They fall into silence.

And then-

“And I guess I’m not used to dealing with bad guys when you’re- when you’re not wearing red. When you can’t- fight. Ya know?”

Despite the fact that the last words were murmured quiet enough that they could hardly be heard in the small cavity of space between them, that his own hands are cupped around Kon’s face and blocking any potential lip readers, he still tenses, still has to resist the urge to glance around and survey the surroundings.

Instead, he frowns, swallows.

“I can take care of myself. You know that.”

That draws out a laugh, and the sound echoes warmly between them, and Tim both loves and hates how much that  _ stupid  _ smile makes him just want to kiss his boyfriend’s stupid beautiful face, witnesses be damned.

“Of course. You could probably take me out any time.”

Here, he grins wickedly.

“It’s kind of hot, actually.”

Aaaaand- that’s  _ that _ moment.

“Oh my  _ gods,  _ Kon.”

Tim shoves him off roughly, making the taller boy laugh and respond in kind, sending him sprawling with a squak of protest. But when Conner slips his calloused palm into his own to help him up, he doesn’t let go, just holds on tighter. 

“Should we do something about these guys?”

Tim blinks, because,  _ oh, right, _ and glances back behind them at the knocked out thugs.

“...I’ll call 911 from the coffee shop.”

Conner doesn’t even blink an eye at his priorities.

“You should probably also call Mr. Wayne and tell him you’re taking the rest of the day off because of this clearly incredibly traumatic experience.”

God, he loves his boyfriend.

“ _ Oooh- yes.  _ I like this idea. _... _ Would you like to come with me?”

“I thought we were laying low?”

“Eh- I’m in disguise. No one will notice.”

“...Do you really believe that?”

A pointed look to the prone forms scattered all around them.

“I can and will rescind my offer.”

“Got it. Shutting up.”

And they walk out of the shadows and into the sun, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was surprisingly fun to write XD Hope you enjoyed!


	6. all my priorities are with my caffeine fixation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Chapter Warnings

_ GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS- GUESS WHAT JUST HAPPENED JUST RIGHT OUTSIDE OF MY CRUMMY APARTMENT!?!? The video is pixelated as hell because I have a really, really awful phone and you can’t really hear what they’re saying most of the time but loooooook _

_ MP4Vid.File _

_ OH!?!?!? MY GODS!?!?!? _

_ Shit shit shit shit shit _

_ has someone called the police? ar ethey okay? _

_ My cHiLdreN- _

_ The police stopped by like ten minutes later so I’m pretty sure they called them once they got away a bit. And I had my moms call them too! _

_ My heart. Oh my gosh. My heart. I-  _

_ Oh my gods they must have been so scared my children my children oh my gods that was so scary my heart is still pounding. _

_ HgTi6Wo9nps4SVu0rtMYHEART _

_ okay i know that this is like super horrible and stuff but like the way that conner just- “get the hell away from my boyfriend!” like yes this is what i need from my life. _

_ SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT _

_ Look at how Tim just *drops* the gun the instant that guy goes down- didn’t his parents get shot? Like- kiddo _

_ When did this hapen??? _

_ Like, fifteen minutes ago! _

_ Fuuuuuuuuuuckkk _

_ Conner has earned my favor, even if he’s from Metropolis.  _

_ I need me a boy like t h a t _

_ Does Bruce know? Do the authorities know? Has someone checked those boys over? That looked really serious! _

_ THE. FOREHEAD. TOUCH. *dies* _

_ I honestly cannot believe any of you guys. Someone was quite literally almost  _ kidnapped  _ and held to the head at gunpoint and all you freaking care about is your OTP like what the hell? _

_ i wish i could know what they were saying! _

_ GUYS!!! I just looked up from my phone and??? _

_ pic.jpg _

_ WHAT!? WHERE ARE YOU!? _

_ thank goodness- they look pretty okay _

_ its so weird cause tim looks pretty casual but i have the sneaking suspicion that even just his shirt costs more than my whole wardrobe _

_!!!!! _

_ ARE THEY OKAY? _

_ H aev you talked to them? _

_ when was this? are they still therE? _

_ OH MY GODS!?1?!? Where are you?  _

_ I’m at this little cafe like, three blocks away from Crime Alley! Its called Gotham Knights? ALso, I officially know Timothy DrakeWaynes coffee order and this is the best day of my life. _

_ he literally was just almost kidnapped and the first thing he does is get coffee. what an icon _

_ Reblog if you’re so obsessed with caffeine that it takes priority over calling the police after an attempted kidnapping _

_ Mood _

_ Literally me, what the hell _

_ LOOK THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS _

_ Pic.jpg _

_ awwwww _

_ FIC FIC FIC FIC FIC FIC FIC FIC I NEED THISSSS _

_ They’re comforting eachother that so sweet _

_ #TimDrakeProtectionSquad _

_ YOU ARE SO FREAKING LUCKY _

_ You guys should all be so ashamed of yourselves. Like seriously. These kids were literally almost kidnapped! There were guns! What is wrong with you people? Get your prioities straight! _

_ i’m sorry but all my priorities are with my caffeine fixation and they can’t come to the phone right now _

_ @PlottingHippos, I know that some people are taking this pretty lightly and making jokes, but look at them! They seem a little shaken but relatively okay, the police have been called, the situation dealt with, and no ones hurt. Take it easy, friend. _

_ i might actually explode. this is the end. this is everything.i’ve gotten whiplash from going from outright fear to outrigh adorability. I just???? _

_ Timothy Drake Wayne be like “I know a place” an then he takes you out into a back alley to get kidnapped _

_ DO YOU HAVE ANY MORE PICS? _

_ nO :(  _

_ And I don’t think I’m gonna take any more either. Timothy noticed me taking the last one and did that little hunch cagey thing he sometimes does when the press is asking too many questions and then his boyfriend spotted me and frowned with disapproval and gave a little head shake and I was filled with so much regret that I instantly died inside from embarrassment and shame _

_ Its still the greatest day ever though. Not gonna lie. _

_ But yeah, gonna pay and then I'll be getting the heck out of dodge _

_ Awww no I want the pics they’re so cute _

_ No, I agree, now’s probably really Not The Time. _

_ *mentally prays to Batman for forgiveness of my sins of bothering those two boys when they be still anxious* _

_ UPDATE: FOLK THE PAPPARAZZI FOUND THEM I FEELS O BAD THIS IS ALL MY FAULT _

_ DOUBLE UPDATE: THE SERVERS ARE HIDING THEM IN THE BACK BLESS THEM _

_ TRIPLE UPDATE: I’ve escaped the hoards and am now back at my home. It was totally crazy and I feel massively guilty and the moral of this story is don’t be the creepy person who takes sneaky picture sof celebrities because it will make you feel bad forever the end _

* * *

“Kon.”

Conner looks down at Tim, awkwardly crammed into the corner of the supply closet.

“Yes?”

Tim thunks the back of his head against the thin wood walls, sighs. Drinks his coffee.

“I have made a mistake.”

Outside, the paparazzi yell louder, drowning out the reedy voice of the manager.

“Yes?”

Tim sighs, again. Drinks, again.

“I forgot that people could recognize you, now. And that people are actually paying attention to me, now. And I forgot to specify that I wanted  _ three  _ extra espresso shots. Not just one.”

“Tragic.”

“I  _ know. _ ”

Tim drinks. Conner fidgets. Outside, the yelling and camera clicking drones on.

And then, finally-

“Alright,” says Kon, ”hear me out. What if I just picked you up and flew us both out of here. Just like- real fast, so no one could see us.”

“Finally,” says Tim, and he knocks the rest of his drink back like a shot, “I thought you would never ask.”

“I could take us to Smallville! Then you could finally meet my-”

Tim shoots him a look. Conner sighs, a bit sheepish.

“Right. To Wayne Manor it is.”

Two minutes later, a blur of blue blazes through the sky, the closet becomes completely vacated, and none of the arguing patrons in the cafe are any wiser.


	7. revenge is a sweet, sweet mistress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Chapter Warnings

**WHITE KNIGHT TO THE RESCUE!?**

**SHOCKING IMAGERY! WAYNE HEIR ALMOST KIDNAPPED! HOMOSEXUAL LOVER STEPS IN!**

**TEN TIMES TIMOTHY DRAKE WAYNE WAS A GAY ICON**

**BRUCE WAYNE’S WARD ALMOST KIDNAPPED!**

**WHICH CLASSIC TIMOTHY DRAKE MOMENT ARE YOU?**

**REAL LIFE FAIRY TALE**

**ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING OF TIMOTHY DRAKE-WAYNE**

**POSSIBLE ATTEMPTED HATE CRIME AGAINST WAYNE HEIR**

**TEN TIMES WE FELL IN LOVE WITH CONNOR KENT**

**TRUE LOVE TO THE RESCUE!**

**STILL NO OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM THE WAYNES: WHAT NEXT?**

**PRINCE CHARMING SAVES THE DAY!**

* * *

It’s Duke who dooms him, in the end.

Duke, who walks up to the breakfast table with a truly impressive amount of newspapers and printed online articles held in his arms, plops everything down in front of his unsuspecting siblings, a shit eating grin pulling at his lips that he tries unsuccessfully to hide.

Tim, who is sleep deprived and still only on his third cup of coffee, doesn’t think fast enough to stop him.

And thus, the next thing he knows, his entire family is peering at the various ridiculous news articles with their own matching shit eating grins, and he can feel a rising horror in his chest.

It’s Duke who dooms him, but it’s Dick who lays upon him the final blow.

The older man is grinning, his face lit with a manic sort of light. Tim tries to plead with him using his own bright blue orbs, forming the perfect puppy dog eyes, but he should have known it would be futile. After all, Dick is the master of the look, and such meager attempts can not sway him.

"Sooo,” the older man says, because he is evil, and Tim internally curses his name to the high heavens, “if Conner is Prince Charming, does that mean you’re the princess, Tim?”

Harper snorts into her cereal, reaches across to swat painfully at his arm.

“You’re the perfect damsel in distress!”

Cass grins at him, too, and twirls an imaginary magic wand over his head from across the way. He gives her a betrayed look and she just smiles back impishly. Meanwhile, Harper is still laughing, Dick has his own mischievous look as he pulls out his phone and starts typing, and Cullen is looking around the room dully in confusion, having only just walked into the kitchen for breakfast.

Duke looks superbly pleased with himself. Tim makes a silent vow to place cockroaches in the boy’s pillow case while he’s sleeping.

“I hate you all,” he announces to the room as a whole. Then he stands up, grabs the coffee pot, and makes a tactical retreat to his room.

But, of course, that’s only the start of it. 

Jason comes crawling through his window later in the evening with a shit eating grin on his face. His helmet is off, which means this probably isn’t gonna be one of those times he’s there for a fight, which is great because Tim is sore and bruised and tired after taking down Clayface last night. 

But Jason comes in, shit eating grin in place, and says, “Hey, Princess, what you’ve been up to?”

Tim breathes, suddenly far too aware of who Dick was texting that morning.

The conversation that follows is a rollercoaster of a ride, mostly because Tim is so very determined in making sure it never wanders even near to his relationship with Conner and the headlines new titles for them and because Jason is taking a chaotic sort of glee in trying to bring the topic up in any number of ways, just to watch Tim squirm. 

By the end of it, Jason has somehow managed to call him fifteen synonyms for the word ‘princess’ and fit in eighteen separate innuendos. Tim’s face is flushed bright red and Jason is cackling madly.

“ _Jason-”_ Tim says, and if there is any whining quality to his voice it’s simply just because he’s tired. 

Really.

_Really._

Anyone who says otherwise is a dirty, dirty liar.

 _"Timothy,”_ Jason mimics, and then seems to take pity on him.

‘Seems to’ being the key phrase of that sentence.

Just as he is relaxing into a conversation about a book the older boy had recommended, Jason sidetracks.

“Hey, Timmy Boy, was wondering, when _was_ the last time you and your boyfriend committed to fornificati-”

Tim gives up all restraint and kicks Jason right out of the window, his foot solidly planting across the young man’s face.

He can hear Jason laughing the whole way down.

Only a day after that particular encounter, Damian corners him in the library. His grin is smug, and his eyes say that he thinks he’s won.

Tim’s own eyes narrow in turn: a smug Damian is rarely a good one.

“Drake,” says the boy.

“Damian,” says Tim.

They stare at each other, a silent battle of wills.

The demon child gives in first, leering all the while.

“I demand that you teach me of the ritualistic handshake between you and Grayson!”

Tim snorts, turns back to his book.

“I already told you, Damian, _no.”_

But the boy pushes the novel down, meets Tim’s eyes with a triumphant smirk.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll post the images that I have collected on you and Kent.”

He forces his face to not give any tells beyond the raising of his eyebrows. The blackmail is good quality, he’s got to admit, but two can play at that game, and Tim can play it better.

“Fine,” he says nonchalantly, hiding his own smirk when he notices the younger boy’s take-back at his tone, “just know that if you do that I’ll release the recording I made of you watching the Bee Movie.”

Damian freezes.

_Bingo._

“You _video-taped me!?”_

The question comes out more of a hiss than any actual words, but Tim just nods.

“Yup! All one hour and thirty five minutes of it, as well as the twenty minute tantrum afterwards! It’s brilliant. I’ve made edits where you’re in slow motion, set to that one song Sue Sylvester rampages on repeat- though I don’t suppose you’ve seen _Glee…"_

Damian scowls.

“Delete it. Immediately.”

But Tim just shakes his head.

“Not how this game works, Damian. You delete the pictures first, as well as all copies stored in hard drives and physical format. _Then_ we can talk.”

Damian snarls. Tim stays placid, not allowing even a twitch to give him away.

There’s a staring contest that lasts no longer than a minute and twenty seven seconds.

“Tt.”

Damian turns and storms off, and Tim waits till he’s sure he’s out of hearing range to sigh in relief, already cursing his predicament and how it makes him vulnerable to such attacks. He’ll just have to be careful, and that will be the end of it.

But that’s not the end of it, either.

All of online clamps immediately onto the concept of _PRINCE CHARMING SAVES THE DAY!_ and the fanart is immense and terrible and he hates it. He doesn’t even want to think about the fanfic. He hasn’t been able to touch the internet in days in fear of what he might see, because he _so_ doesn't want to be aware of all the different ways people perceive him and his boyfriend in any which way.

Worse, for some reason, there’s this massive lag on newsworthy events, and so every news station worth their dime is milking the video of the attempted kidnapping for all their worth. 

So basically, Tim has the worst luck in the world and the universe hates him.

It’s nothing new, really.

“Mmmhmmm,” says Stephanie, as she scrolls through her phone while listening to him rant. The back of his head is resting on her thighs and the itchy scratchy feeling of too little sleep is prickling his eyelids. He has been awake for over thirty six hours and for almost thirty of them he has been on the move, either as Red Robin solving a case out in the field or Red Robin solving a case in front of the massive batcomputer. 

Bruce had grunted seven times in the span of an hour in hopes of prompting him to go to bed. Tim had ignored him, having all intentions of finishing the case because he was _so flipping close-_

However, by the time it was reaching four in the morning again, Bruce put his foot down and physically removed him from the cave, locking him out completely. Which was a bit of an overkill, if you asked Tim, but Bruce didn’t. Just pointed at him, then the stairs leading to his bedroom, and then giving him a _Significant Look._

Tim nodded, looking complying.

And he had meant to comply! Honestly! 

Sort of. 

Maybe.

It was just- he was feeling jittery and all over the place and he had a headache, and he hadn’t seen Stephanie in a while, so somehow, _magically,_ he found himself at her place.

The wonders of being able to drive a motorcycle will never cease.

And so he’s been here for the last few hours, in Stephanie’s run down apartment, ranting like a mad man almost non-stop. At first he had been pacing, but then she had told him to stop it because it was giving _her_ a headache, so now he’s spread out on her couch, head pillowed on her thighs, having long since exhausted the topics of his cases, Bruce’s stupid policies about not staying awake over thirty eight hours, Damian’s infuriating habits of insulting him on sight, how Duke’s kind face hides a mischeivious streak a mile wide, and how good Alfred’s cooking is. (Though that last one had only ended because Stephanie had complained about it making her hungry.)

Now he’s working through his rant on how the universe hates him, using his current predicament as the media’s obsession and the subsequent interest of his love life as his prime example. He has so much material to work with, and all of it is so awful and humiliating and terrible and-

“Mmmhmmm-”

Tim stops. His brows furrow. The ceiling looks like its three good jumps from falling apart, the curls of Stephanie’s hair are a few scant inches away from his nose, and a sneaking suspicion is crawling into the cracks of his sleep-deprived brain. 

“...Are you even listening to me?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What’s my favourite colour?”

“Mmmm…”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Hmm..”

He tries to sit up, jerking Stephanie’s phone out of her grip and onto the raggedy carpet below. She frowns at him, making direct eye contact for the first time in what he realizes is over an hour.

“Hey!”

Tim raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“You really weren’t listening to me this entire time?”

Stephanie gives him an unimpressed look in turn.

“Tim,” she says, deadpanned, “you’ve been talking for almost three hours straight. It is now seven in the morning. I haven’t slept since Wednesday, and you haven’t slept for even longer. I am totally justified in zoning out.”

He pouts. 

She quirks a grin. 

He sighs, acquiescing.

“Fine,” he says, and goes to pick up her phone for her. But she suddenly jerks, making a protesting noise, and grabs his bicep to halt him.

“...What?”

She looks panicked, eyes flicking to the phone on the floor and then back to his own.

Tim narrows his eyes in suspicion.

At the same time, both of them lunge for the abandoned mobile. What follows is a strange scramble of half-sparing, half-wrestling that eventually ends with them both back on the couch and Tim holding up the phone, triumphant.

“Tim,” she says, sounding gravely serious and completely joking, “don’t.”

He sticks his tongue out at her, unlocks it on the second try.

He immediately screeches and drops the phone again upon seeing the fanart of him in a _dress_ leaning over a balcony and Kon-El trying to _woo_ him from down below. 

Scrambling off the couch, he points out her in outrage and squawks, “You! How dare you! I trusted you!”

She grins, impish, shrugs way too innocently to be genuine.

“I just wanted to see what you were talking about!”

“You’re terrible. I was literally just telling you how awkward it all is!”

“Some of it’s actually pretty good! There’s this one where-”

He jams his fingers in his ears.

“Nope, nope, nope, don’t need to know. I’ll be going now. _Goodbyeee_.”

She laughs, grabs his hand, pulls him back down.

“Tim,” she says, kind, gentle, “c’mon. Lay back down. Sleep.”

“You’re still evil,” he tells her, but doesn’t try to get away.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can rant about it some other time.”

“Bet on it.”

She snorts.

“You’re a dork.”

“You love it.”

“I bet Connor loves it mo-”

She gets a mouthful of throw cushion for her efforts, but that just makes her laugh harder.

“Okay, okay, shutting up now.”

“You better.”

“Go to sleep, Tim.”

And he does.

He regrets letting it go so easily when, two days later, he investigates a noise he hears outside his window only to find Conner badly playing a guitar and singing some old stupid love song. He’s shoddily dressed in a poorly made store-bought Prince Charming Costume, and every third note or so he goes out of key.

He can’t see his siblings, but he can _hear_ them- _especially_ Stephanie’s snorted laughter- and Kon-El is struggling to maintain a straight face. 

Tim sighs, raises his middle fingers, and slowly backs away from the screen, hearing everyone fall into massive fits of howling laughter outside.

He walks into the hallway, spots Bruce waiting there for him, lips twitching into a smirk.

“How’s the wooing going?”

Tim points, glares, and heads down the hall.

“You guys are all _such assholes_.”

He walks away to the sound of Bruce’s light chuckle.

Eventually, he finds himself at the place all troubled souls eventually find themselves.

“Alfred,” Tim murmurs, voice sounding as if it is lost somewhere in the fifth dimension of time and space from how very deeply buried it is into the small cavity between his arms and the kitchen counter, “I hate everything and everyone in this world.”

Alfred hums, places a cup full to the brim of warm steamy liquid.

For the first time in over an hour, Tim perks up.

“Alfred,” he says, “I hate everyone and everything in this world except you,” he considers the drink before him, shrugs, and brings it to his lips to chug it, “and coffee. I hate everything and everyone in this world but you and coffee.”

Alfred, from where he is wiping the already pristine counters, simply nods.

“Rightly so, my boy, rightly so.”

Twenty-four hours later, everyone in the manor- minus Tim and Alfred- wakes up screaming, hyper realistic cockroach robots crawling their way out of assorted pillow cases. Tim wakes up just enough to listen to the beautiful ear shattering harmony, and then blissfully drops back into slumber.

Revenge is a sweet, sweet mistress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *brings upon you this flaming garbage like a cat brings a dead bird* A GIFT!


	8. Clucks Luthor Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please accept my humble offerings *bows*  
> No Chapter Warnings

Martha frowns at the sputtering engine, wiping sweat off her brow and placing her hand on her hips. The machine spazzes and pops, rumbling without ever really starting, an echoing rev filling the barn. 

Seeing yet another failed attempt to put the tractor together, Kon defeatedly turns the ridiculous thing off, groaning and knocking his skull back against the seat’s headrest. They’d been working on the tractor all morning long, only for all their limited dreams to crumble down into nothing but pixie dust.

Or, well, a fine layer of dirt, some scatterings of hay, and dried droppings from the last time Clucks Luthor had wormed her way free from the chicken coop, because the hen was an escape artist and because Conner has to get his amusement from  _ something  _ in this cruel world.

And if that something is occasionally chasing after a chicken with a poorly parodied name, then so be it. 

It’s the little things in life.

Martha, as if reading his mind, frowns and squints suspicious eyes across the grounds to the innocent coop. Then, wiping oily hands on her apron, she peers up at Kon. 

“Any other ideas, hun?”

“Lunch?”

An amused frown from the woman, and he throws his hands into the air and hops off the tractor, coming to peer down at the engine, trying to scan and see anything that looks broken or misplaced and finding- to absolutely no one’s surprise- absolutely nothing.

“Ma, you know I’ve never been good with mechanics. Like- if you want me to  _ lift  _ the tractor I would do that for ya, but-”

“No! That’s- that’s fine, dear. Please don’t lift the tractor.”

They both wince at the reminder of what happened the  _ last  _ time that that had happened, which was a dark day in Kent history. Conner had smelt of smoke for  _ weeks  _ and it had taken absolutely forever to rebuild the barn.

Seriously. You accidentally destroy a tractor  _ one time  _ and suddenly that’s all your legacy becomes for the rest of your days. It’s going to be on his headstone that he  _ sortofkindofmaybe _ made a tractor into a bomb.

(Jokes aside, the guilt had been very real, and Kon had continuously snuck his allowance back into his co-parents’ wallets for  _ months  _ afterward.)

His thoughts are dragged back down to earth when Martha is suddenly moving again, taking a swig from her water bottle and shooting Conner a thoughtful look.

“Timothy is quite good with machines, isn’t he? You told me he’s always building things and hacking.” 

Kon blinks at her. Hesitantly replies and draws the vowel out long.

“....Ye _ -es?” _

“You should invite him over! That way we’d finally get to meet your boy and we might actually get this tractor in working order without having to spend money on a mechanic.”

She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and Kon laughs and gently,  _ gently,  _ nudges her shoulder. 

“I’ll ask, but no promises. He’s super excited to meet you guys, though!”

Which is… sort of a lie. But what Martha doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Internally, something mullish grumbles and hyper focuses on all the rejections he’s received over the course of their relationship about Tim coming over and meeting his parental units, especially considering that meeting a sweet old couple like Martha and Johnathan is  _ nothing  _ in comparison to meeting the  _ goddamn Batman  _ as your significant other’s father figure. 

But he pushes that down. His boyfriend is a ridiculously busy person with some pretty weird hangups: he just needs time. 

And normally he’s pretty impatient, but Kon can give that to him. For Tim, Kon can give him all the time in the world.

Quickly, to distract the woman from asking any more prying questions, he blurts out, “I really hope you guys like him. He- he means a lot to me. Really.”

Martha tuts, reaches out and gently pinches his cheek, her smile growing soft and fond and a little teasing.

“Anyone who can make my boy blush like a tomato whenever they’re texting is practically already family, honey.”

“I do not blush like a tomato!” Kon exclaims, blushing like a tomato.

But she only laughs, throwing her head back and chortling in the way that only Kents can do, that whole bodied expression of joy that lifts you up regardless whether or not you have the ability to fly. Martha laughs, and the runaway wisps of her hair are nearly translucent in the light, wrinkles casted warm and golden in the midday sun.

This woman who had taken him in, who had loved him and cared for him when he had been so angry and so lost. Who sings with her husband along with an old timey radio and kisses his cheek whenever he heads out, be it to school or to save the world. 

It’s almost funny, really, because Conner’s the one who has super strength, but she’s the one in his mind who can move mountains.

“C’mon then, hun, let’s take a break from all this rubbish and get you something to eat. Growing bones and all that!”

Kon smiles, something soft and fond growing inside of him, takes her by the arm, and they head back to the house for fresh lemonade and sandwiches.

And that night, he taps his phone against the palm of his hand, staring at his contacts.

Tim’s name has a heart by it that wasn’t there last week. He’s pretty sure Cassie’s at fault, because she’s secretly a romantic and also a troll, and was also in possession of his phone for a superbly long game of keep away.

It’s cute, though, so he keeps it. 

But he doesn’t press the call button.

Conner has been trying to entice his boyfriend over to the farm for  _ months.  _ Tim’s always gotten the same pinched expression around his eyes, even while smiling like it’s nothing, and comes up with a seemingly valid reason for the continued delay in meeting the parental units. 

He wants to show his boyfriend Clucks Luthor and roll his eyes when the other teen immediately comes up with an infinitely better pseudonym. He wants to show Tim all his favourite hideaways around the farm, to curl up in his bedroom together and talk about their day or about a recent ridiculous shenanigan, or even just lay there and say nothing at all. He wants to watch Tim interact with Ma and Pa, for them to be dazzled by his intellect and snarky wit, for him to be embraced by their kind and loving natures. 

Kon wants some of his favourite people in the world to meet. It should be as uncomplicated as their simple dream to have a working tractor. 

Tim’s pulling a face in his profile picture, eyes rolling skywards and something happy quirking at the corners of his lips. Conner smiles at it, frowns at it, and scrolls past.

_ “Hey, Bart! Listen, I know it’s getting late, but I was wondering if you’d be willing to come over and use your engineering prowess for good…” _


	9. YOU UNEDUCATED FUCK WAFFLE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only way I can support Bruce Wayne as a billionaire is if he keeps losing his billionaire status by giving to charities. Otherwise??? Eat the rich  
> CHAPTER WARNING: References to Child Neglect

_No new TimCon pictures in daaaaaaays T.T_

_hey not so friendly reminder that THOSE TWO BOYS ARE ACTUAL HUMAN BEINGS AND NOT JUST TOY DOLLS TO GIVE YOU ENTERTAINMENT_

_Favourite Wayne:_

_1\. you can't_

_2\. put them_

_3\. in an order_

_4\. because_

_5\. they all_

_6\. have_

_7\. different_

_8\. Personalities_

_9\. and good sides_

_10\. TIM DRAKE (and his boi)_

_I will say it once and say it a thousand times: Dick Grayson Is The Best Wayne Kid_

_Sometimes I'm sad and then I remember I'm in a world where Conner Kent exists and has said "and I Oop" on live television and it makes me feel happy_

_so all yall are just gonna be sleeping on my boy Damian. like. you’re just going to do that. gonna ignore this sweet summer child and his army of pets. wow. okay._

_Didn’t??? Damian??? Bite a reporter once?_

_E X A C T L Y~~~ sweet summer child (ʘᴗʘ✿)_

_*happily avoids the chaos that is the fandom wumf and reblogs Tim and Conner dancing in their pretty suits All Day Long*_

_do you ever just look out your window and smile because Timothy Drake Wayne is gay and that just makes the world a little bit of a better place?_

_HE’S BISEXUAL YOU UNEDUCATED FUCK WAFFLE_

_My lesbian akwakening came the day I first looked upon the wayne family and saw Cassandra Wayne in a suit_

_Whenever there hasn’t been any new pictures or intervieas or whatevers in a few days the tim drake tag gets so crowded with other stuff. Please just tag what your post is about. Please._

_Reasons Why You Should Love Mr. Wayne, Even if he’s a Bit of A Ditz:_

  * _Bruce Wayne is the only billionaire to give away enough money to substantially loose his billionaire status TWICE_


  * _To really good charities and causes too!_


  * _He adopts and fosters. Not only that, he adopts and fosters disenfranchised kids who are often POC AND are above the age of twelve- which is stupidly rare in the system_


  * _As a bonus, all his kids seem genuinely happy???_


  * _He sets up businesses in low income areas and purposely hires people who are living in poverty or are unable to get a job due to have facing jail time or whatevs. My uncle got taken on after three years of unemployment after bumping into Mr. Wayne at a cafe and he CRIED_


  * _Scholarships. SO MANY SCHOLARSHIPS. To really good schools!_


  * _He’s also known to randomly pay off student debts???_


  * _Actively uses his position as a Straight (?) White Man to raise other people’s voices_


  * _He’s hot (I'm joking) (sort of.)_


  * _His whole family is beautiful really and he brings it up literally Every Interview Possible. We stan One Proud Dad_


  * _One time when someone was making a girl uncomfortable he literally poured red wine on the guy’s head and said “whoops I didn’t see you there” with the most deadpan face known to man_


  * _That one gif of him trying to eat a taco with a fork and knife gives me LIFE_



_anyone who disrespects the Waynes can die by my sword_

_LOOK ME IN THE EYES AND TELL ME THESE TWO LITTLE FUCKERS ARENT ADORABLE. I DARE YOU_

_am I the only one who gets unreasonably concerned about celebrities???? like I know if we met they'd probably literally never give me the time of day, but it doesn't stop me from wondering if they're alright. Like? Are they sleeping okay? Eating enough vegetables? Has someone given them a warm hug recently?_

_Me, happily living my normal life: Lalalala_

_That one guy who comes to my bookshop every week looking SUSPICIOUSLY like the late Jason Todd: Hey_

_Me: *FEAR*_

_please understand that the day I don't reblog any Duke Thomas content is the day that I die_

_Listen, as a bisexual person with a not so accepting family, it's literally so meaningfull for me to have Timothy Drake Wayne out there living his life, happy and content with his boyfriend, out and proud. Like I know it wasn't his intention, but it just makes me so HAPPY_

_man i don’t want to be That Guy but let me just say that Timothy Drake and Conner Kent are some Fiiiiiine speci_

_OP never finished their sentence because Batman came into their home and broke all their fingers for sexualizing literal children :) :) :)_

_you scare me_

_Good._

_Hey, not really in this fandom but guess who I just saw on my bus?_

_Jpg.hxml_

_Is that??? an earring hole??? I see??? On his LEFT ear??? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_

_ooooooh maybe he and his boyfriend have matching earrings!!_

_That would be so cuteeee_

_….is it just me, or does he look kinda upset?_

* * *

Tim shows up at Dick’s apartment with a backpack flung over his shoulder and a bad attitude in his brain. He’s tired, cranky, and someone had recognized him on the bus ride over and had started “sneakily” taking pictures of him.

...He had covered his face with his hood and curled up as small and insignificant against the window, trying to shrink down into nothing at all. 

It had been a bad week.

Now, he could have gotten a ride over with Alfred, of course. Or Bruce, if he had asked the day before or so. Even Dick would have been willing to make the round trip over to Gotham and back to Bludhaven.

But Tim doesn’t want to be a bother. Tim doesn’t want to somehow fail to meet others expectations. He’s closing in on his sixteenth birthday and he shouldn’t need to ask, not when he can do it on his own.

Besides, _besides,_ sometimes…. Tim misses his childhood freedom. He misses being able to leave home any time whatsoever, never having to check in with an adult about his late night excursions. He misses the ambiguity, when no one would ever pay any attention to him and there were no expectations to be met. Not at all.

Or, maybe _misses_ isn’t the right way to phrase it. It’s just that sometimes even after all these years the sheer amount of people in the manor is too much, all those eyes and all that attention and so much contact, and there is this pressing _need_ to get out, _get out,_ and it builds and builds and builds until he finds himself spontaneously buying a bus ticket and walking the six miles to the closest bus stop.

He breathes, knocks on his older brother’s door.

He can hear Dick laughing inside, the murmurings of a conversation cutting short. He hunches into himself and tries to resist the urge to run away, to book himself some motel somewhere and call it a day. Because bothering Dick is one thing- because Dick is…. well, _Dick,_ and Tim’s done this enough that the anxiety stemming from intruding is manageable- but bothering Dick when he’s got _friends over_ is an entire other beast, and he curls his fingers into the too-long sleeves of his hoodie and gets lost in his internal debate.

But then the door is opening, and Dick is standing there, steady and warm and present, and something like relief curls in his gut.

There must be some tell-tale emotion lingering on his features, because his older brother’s welcoming grin settles into something softer, gentler, and he tugs him into a hug.

Tim breathes into Dick’s soft sleep shirt and melts, just a little bit.

“You okay, Timbo?”

Quiet, unassuming. If the older man is feeling any pity he hides it well, instead projecting nothing but calm assurance and understanding.

Nodding into Dick’s chest, Tim tries to not feel embarrassed about just how _much_ he loves his big brother. Because it’s a ridiculous amount, and only here in the man’s warm and protected arms he’s willing to admit it, even if it’s only to himself. 

Dick lets him just stand there, soaking up the warmth, for as long as he needs. And when Tim pulls away and shoves his fists into his hoodie pocket, awkwardly offering a smile up at him, the older man just laughs and ruffles his hair. 

“I could have given you a lift, kiddo. You didn’t need to take the bus.”

Shrugging, he readjusts the straps on his backpack, gaze flickering to hyperfocus on the small tear on the hallway’s carpet.

“It’s fine,” he manages, and when he smiles again it feels a little more real, “Are you sure I can stay over? It sounds like you’ve got company.” 

Dick blinks, blinks, and then his mouth forms a small “o” in realization. Then the man is ushering him into the apartment, warm hands clasped on Tim’s shoulder.

“Cullen’s spending the weekend at my place: trying to get out of the manor a little bit and fit in some brotherly bonding. Isn’t that right, Cullen?”

Cullen has a thing of tea in hand, gaze focused on the screen where She-Rah is just about to whoop some ass. When Dick calls out to him his eyes flicker over to the pair of them, offering a flitting smile in greeting before refocusing on the TV, speaking over the oncoming action sequence.

“Hey, Tim. Dick’s catching me up on magical warrior lesbians. Bow’s my favourite so far, but I could be convinced to join Team Glimmer.”

And just like that, all the suddenly built up fear about intruding on Dick and Cullen’s bonding time fades away into something manageable, and he finds himself sitting on the older man’s ratty second hand couch. It’s a glaringly bright colour red with neon orange spots decorating the cushions. It’s butt ugly and, predictably, Dick adores it.

It’s also ridiculously comfortable, and so Tim can never find it within himself to protest it much beyond a token comment or two.

He sets his backpack to rest between his legs, and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He can hear Dick clanging around the kitchen, probably making popcorn or- more likely, considering Tim’s late arrival- reheating some sort of pasta dish for him to have for dinner.

“Personally, I’m partial to Frosta, not gonna lie.”

“Frosta?”

“Just wait, you’ll see.”

So they settle in for a marathon, neither of them jumping when their older brother flips over the back of the couch and in between them, somehow not spilling even a smudge of food despite holding popcorn _and_ pasta.

Tim eyes the plate handed over to him. It looks like some sort of alfredo sauce with peas and chicken, and the aroma wafting off of it makes him realize he hasn’t eaten since yesterday. He chows down and watches a bunch of BAMF ladies kick ass on screen, relaxing slowly but surely into the cushions.

Dick’s apartment is small. It’s small and crowded, cluttered with souvenirs and received gifts. It’s an explosion of colour, everything clashing and everything _almost_ too much of an eyesore, and yet giving off a comforting homely vibe anyways. It’s not necessarily messy, just overfull. Sometimes the water runs cold or the power goes out, and a few months back Dick had complained about the plumbing leaking.

It’s about as far from Wayne manor in style as humanly possible. 

(More importantly, it’s as far from the Drake mansion as humanly possible.)

Some episodes later, Tim’s been recruited to help dry dishes. Cullen’s still watching in the other room, his laughter occasionally filtering through. Dick has been humming under his breath, but now they work in silence.

And then-

“How long has it been since you last slept?”

Tim purses his lips and focuses on the dish in his hands, drying it vigorously and turning heel to put it away in the rinky dinky cupboard across the way, sitting tilted in its frame: it’s going to bother him enough he’ll probably be fixing it before he heads out. 

“Tim.”

He sighs, tilts his eyes upwards, bites his lip. 

_“Tim.”_

“A couple of days…”

It’s Dick’s turn to sigh, and just hearing it makes Tim’s shoulders hunch up to his ears, makes his eyes clench tight because _goddammit_ he’s not going to cry. He’s just tired. He’s just tired and he’s stressed and-

And Dick’s arms are tugging him back around, pulling him back into a hug. Tim moves willingly enough, even if he’s a bit stiff limbed, and lets himself be held.

...Tim’s always a bit stiff limbed. It’s an occupational hazard from the handy dandy child neglect. _Three cheers for the Drakes!_

The thought makes him snort wetly into Dick’s chest, and Dick hums in response and rocks him back and forth, just a little bit. 

“I’m not mad at you,” he says, because he knows that Tim _knows_ that and he also knows that Tim’s brain _doesn’t,_ “but Tim, this can’t go on. It’s not good for you, and you know I worry.”

The older man squeezes just a little tighter, and the teen nods and hisses, more exasperated at the situation than at his brother, “It’s not like I’m _trying_ to stay up.”

“I know, I know, but it’s getting to the point where it’s interfering with your life and there’s stuff we can be doing to _help_.”

Tim bites his lip and doesn’t say anything. In the living room, Adora’s rousing speech echoes. He feels Dick’s chin just barely settle on top of his head, soft breathing ruffling his hair. There’s an 82% chance that once he finally hits his growth spurt he’s going to be taller than his older brother, and the thought sits weirdly in his chest.

“Just talk to Bruce, okay? That’s all I ask. Talk to Bruce, and explore some options. Or talk to me. Or Kon. _Somebody,_ okay?”

He nods. He breathes. His older brother pulls away and ducks down, meeting his eyes with his own, cupping his face with warm calloused hands.

“You’re not a burden, kiddo, you’re a priority. There’s a difference.”

And then Dick smiles, rubs his thumbs against Tim’s cheeks, and then starts herding him back into the living room.

“C’mon, now, let’s go watch Frosta be a badass and Cullen inevitably fall in love with her character, and then I can set up the blow up mattress.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but I acquiesce.”

Dick laughs.

The hours slip by, the episodes pass, and the air mattress is subsequently blown and fitted with sheets. Dick retires to his room, bemoaning his early start the next morning, and Tim gives the air mattress to Cullen and takes the couch, gratefully accepting the weighted blanket the other teen throws at his face as they get situated.

With the lights out and the distant sounds of sirens as a most wonderful lullaby, Tim blinks up at the ceiling and tries to convince his mind that he’s tired, even as it whirs with thoughts and cases and things he has to do tomorrow.

And then, in the darkness, Cullen's voice echoes.

“Tim?”

“Yeah, Cullen?”

Breathing, breathing, in all this quiet dark. A car screeches outside and someone yells a series of curses. 

“Are we okay? I know we were teasing you the other day, but we all, you know. You’re our brother and we-” the younger boy clears his throat, voice tapering off before coming back strong, as if determined to push through. “We... love you. A lot. And we’re here for you, really.”

Part of Tim is whispering that Cullen is lying, that he _has_ to be lying, because his voice is full of hesitancies and falterings, but realistically he knows it’s because Cullen has a life of abuse and trust issues under his belt, and not nearly as much time to readjust to a safe environment.

So he does his best to block out the anxiety and says, instead, “Thanks, Cullen. I appreciate it.”

Cullen makes some sort of jerky motion that might have been a nod and turns on his side, back to Tim. 

And then, because it seems to be the thing to do, and because he means it, Tim whispers, “I really love you guys, too.”

There’s a huff of a laugh from the bed, and he smiles at the ceiling, letting himself relax in increments.


	10. no kissing on the job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I've never taken any antidepressents before, so be aware there's probably something wrong with my take on it. SORRY!!
> 
> Also, take a little action interlude, because *GASP* sometimes I actually remember they're superheroes XD  
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Kidnapping, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Harm to Minors (Not graphic)

“This isn’t necessary.”

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Yeah, but I never sleep! It’s just who I am, Bruce. It has nothing to do with the meds.”

“But we can change ‘the meds’ to  _ help  _ you sleep.” 

Tim grumbles. Bruce looks patiently down at him. For a moment, there is silence.

“Fineeee… But I'm only giving in because I’m under pressure. Let it be known.”

The older man nods.

“Duly noted.”

The whole process is drawn out as hell, and it involves a paperwork nightmare and a whole lot of boredom, but they walk out of the office with a new prescription for antidepressants and the new knowledge that Bruce has never watched any  _ Adventure Time _ in his entire life, and rather determined aspiration to remedy that as soon as possible.

But by the time Tim gets home, he’s tired. It had been one of those days that just dragged on and on, and he still has patrol in a few hours.

But as much as he doesn't want to admit it, 

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, iit has been a while since he’s slept well, and so he decides to try and take a nap, even if it would only last for a few scant minutes before his body woke him back up again.

So he walks into his room and collapses into his bed, eyes closed.

Only for them to immediately snap open again because  _ something is off.  _

His head whips around to the sensed movement in the upper corner of the room and lands on Damian, pressed against the two walls and the ceiling, scowling. 

For a moment, they just stare at each other, silent.

Then Tim breathes in harshly through his nose.

His younger brother glares harder.

“Damian,” Tim says, trying very hard to channel his inner Dick and be patient and kind, even though he can already sense he’s failing miserably, “what the  _ hell  _ are you doing in my room?”

Damian stares, petulant.

Tim stares right back, angry.

“ _ Damian.” _

“Tt.”

And perhaps Tim’s been conditioned to respond negatively to that noise or something, and perhaps he should have tried a little harder to keep his emotions in check, but instantly he reaches out and grabs the closest thing on his bedside table-  _ The Iliad,  _ of which he has been trying to make himself work through for months now- and chucks it right up at Damian’s stupid face.

As he tracks the book’s flight path, he can already hear Jason’s angry rant about the novel’s mistreatment playing in the back of his mind, like some sort of demented elevator music.

It’s all worth it, though, when Damian yelps, releases a hand from it’s tensed position to stop the collision with his nose, wobbles awkwardly on the ceiling, and then tumbles to the ground. 

The younger boy executes a neat little roll upon landing, of course, because they’re all trained too thoroughly to not know how to fall from high places- Dick is insistent on frequent refreshers, and no one has the heart to say no- but the sheer satisfaction of knocking Damian down a notch or two is more than worth it.

“Now that we're on level ground,” Tim says, not at  _ all _ smugly, “you wanna tell me what all that was about?”

But Damian just grumbles unintelligibly, storms out of the room, and slams the door behind him.

Tim just watches with raised eyebrows.

If he listens closely, he can just hear Duke’s muffled voice through the door.

“Operation Secret Handshake Stake Out didn’t go too well then, I take it.”

Damian growls out something else, unintelligibly.

Duke makes a soft amused humming noise, as if in agreement.

Tim just flops back on his bed and closes his eyes, deciding that it’s not something he wants to deal with.

Damian Speak: also an artform, and not one he has any intention of learning. 

  
  


By the time they’re all ready for patrol, Damian is still not talking with him, and Tim looks out at the small flock of heroes gathered in the cave and decides that there’s more than enough cover for the entirety of Gotham for this one night. So he grabs a spare grapple and some civvies, throws them in a bag, and tosses a passing farewell over his shoulder as he heads into the Zeta Tubes, coordinates set to Metropolis. 

Superboy is waiting for him there when he arrives, floating upside down with a cheesy grin on his face, hair wildly gelled up, and his kooky glasses nowhere in sight.

He's a sight for sore eyes, if nothing else, and Tim resists the urge to shoot a cheesy grin of his own back and instead just smiles small and soft, a twitch of the lips in the upwards direction, which is what he tries to limit himself to when in uniform.

Kon turns himself the right side up, leans close with his eyebrows raised, still floating ever so slightly off the ground.

“Bad day?”

Red Robin rolls his eyes.

“You have  _ no  _ idea.”

Which is, of course, an invitation for him to rant all about it. 

They take off into the night, words flowing from their tongues, young and alive and easy, and Tim’s not really supposed to laugh in costume, but he finds himself doing it anyways.

Four hours later, and Red Robin has no time for idle chatter- ranting or otherwise- because he's far too busy trying not to drown.

_ Fun times, fun times. _

His chest feels tight, compressed, strained. His chest feels like he needs  _ air,  _ but breathing in at the moment would be a very bad idea indeed.

With a good ample breath and time to prepare, Tim can hold his breath for almost seven minutes. 

But Tim didn't get a good ample breath. What he got was the dazed feeling of waking up to a haze of drugs and the jarring noises of people yelling back and forth, the sensation of being dragged, the hazy discomfort of being chained. He's pretty good at working through any drugs people give him- it just takes a little bit of effort, a little bit of focusing, sometimes some sort of wake up call-

ASaid wake up call comes in the form of hundreds of gallons of water fell down on top of him all at once, bringing him almost immediately to full consciousness and making him inhale sharply from the cold.

It was a good thing he did, because the next thing he knew the water was over his head, and he was chained to the bottom of a tank with nothing but a concoction of drugs to his name.

Drugs, and his  _ utility belt.  _

Gods, he loves it sometimes when people are idiots.

His stiff fingers fumble with cold metal, heavy and sluggish, and his vision wavers even as he moves on autopilot, slipping the lock pick into the keyhole and starting to fiddle with it.

His brain hurts. His lungs ache. He closes his eyes. Shifts his grip, working on it, working on it-

A distinct click that reverberates oddly through the water, and his eyes snap open.

He reaches down and makes fast work of the chains around his ankles, his chest screaming for air even as he kicks off the bottom of the tank and shoots to the top, breaking through the surface and taking deep gasping gulps of air. 

Suddenly, the muffled sounds all around him become loud and clear, alarms whirring and heavy machinery. He breathes harshly with over eager lungs and chokes on it, breathes again and then clambers over the edge of the enclosure, dropping ungracefully to the ground below, still trying to make the black spots fade from his eyes.

He isn’t given much time to recover.

With every blink the alarms seem to be sounding louder, and the very next moment he looks up and guards are streaming in to join the pair who are staring at him, shocked, from the catwalk above. 

“You gotta be kidding me,” he murmurs, because he is waterlogged and tired, and every step he takes squelches uncomfortably loud, water dripping from his cape and forming a large puddle under his feet. 

The guards don’t respond, they just charge, and Tim sighs and reaches into his belt.

A batarang goes whizzing through the air, blunt edged and dangerous, and makes contact with one of the thug’s heads.

_ One down,  _ he thinks,  _ and ten or so to go. _

And when he smiles, the tilt of his lips is more than a little vicious.

He’s a bit off balance, a little off center, throat still feeling cracked for lack of air and vision still blurring from whatever they used to knock him out. He's not at his best, but this is not holding air in his lungs, this is as easy as breathing is supposed to be, natural and instinctive, his muscles moving without instruction and his mind calculating angles without thought.

Four down, then seven.

He catches a stray batarang and sends it flying again without really looking, spinning roughly out of one man's hold and using the momentum to kick another thug in the face. He drops, breathes, turns and slams his fist into a woman's nose.

Ten down.

He tucks, he rolls, comes up swinging.

There's an opening, and Tim jams out a nerve strike, and then another, and then he looks up and counts.

Frowns.

He should have far less adversaries than the amount currently coming at him.

His momentary confusion costs him a precious second where someone gets past his guard. He notices in the last second, dodges harshly, and hisses through his teeth when a sharp knife nicks his arm between the Kevlar plates of his suit.

The doors are still open and the alarms are blaring, more thugs dashing in as he watches, and Red Robin still doesn’t know where Superboy is. 

He resists the urge to close his eyes and sit down for a minute to give his aching head a break, because now is  _ so  _ not the time.

Instead, he reaches for his belt and pulls out a smoke bomb, vanishes into the clouds of black while his accosters cough up a lung-  _ been there, done that-  _ and sneaks around them to the exit.

Less than a minute before they’re back on his tail. If he’s lucky.

There’s adrenaline thrumming in his fingers, making them twitch, and he sucks in another harsh breath and trails down the spartan hallway he’s found himself in, looking for a quiet place to tuck himself away in, or at least an outlet to download some schematics from, or even a-

He freezes, backs up.

_ Air duct. _

The smile that pulls at his lips is more than a little smug.

By the time the crowd of thugs spills out into the hall, he’s long gone.

He finds Kon twenty floors down, twitching within the confines of some sort of cylindrical casing, face ghastly and sunken looking from a pale green glow. 

Has Tim ever mentioned the fact that he hates kryptonite?

Because he really,  _ really _ hates kryptonite.

He renders the guards unconscious quickly enough, messes with the circuitry of the door so that there would be no unwanted visitors- it has the added benefit of muffling some of the loud blaring alarms because  _ ow,  _ his head,  _ ow _ \- and then hacks into the massive database linked up with the pod, hoping to find some sort of safe, easy release mechanism that won’t do any damage to Superboy and have him intact and conscious for the fight out.

Someone starts banging on the door. The firewalls on the machine are, unfortunately, absolute genius.

Luckily, Red Robin is even  _ more  _ of an absolute genius, and hacking his way in, while it takes time with his aching head and stinging arm, is not impossible.

Unluckily, by the time he’s cracked the system and the capsule is opening up, releasing icy hisses of breath and revealing a quickly slumping Superboy, the people outside the chamber have moved on from angrily banging on the door to angrily deciding to blow the door up.

(His life likes to take him on roller coasters of good and bad luck. He’d much prefer it to be predictable, but he supposes he will take what he can get.)

“Superboy,” he hisses, “Suberboy, wake up.”

Kon grumbles, shifts, eyebrows scrunching slightly. 

“ _ Superboy.” _

A groan, this time, and Tim can hear the tell-tale rummage of an explosive being set up. They don’t have  _ time  _ for this.

“This is going to hurt me much more than it will hurt you,” Tim says, because it will.

And then he slaps him. Hard. 

Slapping Krytonians with their skin of steel: not recommended. One out of five stars. Won’t come again.

Kon snaps his eyes open with a jerk. Red Robin is already standing up and heading to the door, cape swaying with the speed of his movements and his hands gesturing impatiently for the other hero to catch up with him. 

Superboy lumbers to his feet.

“What’s going on? ….Why are you all wet?”

Shrugging, Red Robin surveys the room, explains as quickly and as quietly as he can, “We’ve been kidnapped and stored in some sort of underground facility. There was a water tank. It was probably some lucky low-level mob-boss equipped by Luthor. I was almost definitely an unexpected tag along: they left me my  _ belt _ . I escaped, rescued you, and now we’re here.”

The shorter teen pauses for a moment, as if trying to remember something that was on the tip of his tongue.

“Oh! Also, we need somewhere to hide because in about thirty seconds this door is going to explode and a bunch of guards are going to come storming in. Probably with weapons of the kryptonite variety.”

_ “Why didn’t you start with that?” _

Another shrug. Suberboy looks up at the ceiling and questions the universe for why he had to fall in love with a  _ Bat  _ of all people

_ Because he’s smart as hell,  _ says the imaginary universe in his head,  _ and incredibly brave and strangely sweet at the weirdest moments. He’s sarcastic and sassy and a great guy to be around. He makes you laugh and understands you even when you’re lost in your own head, and his dorky obsessions align well with your own. He’s a hero, your hero, and you’re lucky to have him. _

Superboy thinks in his head,  _ Thank you, Imaginary Universe! _

Imaginary Universe responds,  _ Also, look at him, he’s hot as hell. _

_ All too true, Imaginary Universe, all too true. _

Tim interrupts his thoughts.

“Okay, you’re going to lift me up to the ceiling, we’re going to hide in the corner, and then slip out when their backs are turned.”

“ _ Wow _ , you have _ clearly  _ thought this super detailed plan through. _ Clearly. _ ”

An unimpressed look.

“Shut up, I've been drugged. Also,I don't see  _ you _ coming up with any ideas”

Kon, wisely, shuts up.

With seven seconds to spare, they fly up into the corner of the cavern. Superboy feels his shoulders press awkwardly against the stooped walls, and Red Robin maneuvers around in his arm so that he can hide most of their various limbs behind the black of his cape.

It leaves their mouths very close together.

Conner stares at his lips, considers.

“Can I-”

“Shhh- No kissing on the job.”

And then Tim, who’s actually been keeping track of the timed ticks going on outside, presses his face into the super’s neck and moves to cover his ears, just in time for the explosion to sound below them, sending a rush of heat across his back.

A group of men in tactical gear crowd their way in almost immediately afterwards, jarring around the cave and searching for signs of their missing prisoners. Someone spots the open grate of the air vent, calls out, and then there’s another mad scramble to send someone on hot pursuit and post people around air vent exits.

Watching this, Red Robin and Superboy slowly float down level to the door and then out, sticking close to the ceiling until they are around the corner of the next interceding hallway. Then Tim taps his partner’s arm and they are both dropping to the ground and taking off on a near silent run.

“Where’s the closest elevator sounding from?”

Superboy tilts his head, listening.

“That way.”

Tim nods silently, and on the next right takes a fast turn. 

“How do you know which way to go? This place is a maze and I haven’t seen any convenient outlets…”

_ Right, another right. Left, left, right, left. _

“One of the guards had a map of the building pulled up when he was assigning air vent posts. I took a peak at it while we were on our way out.”

_ Left, right, right, left, right, left, right, right. _

“And  _ memorized  _ it!?” slips out of Conner’s mouth without permission, incredulous and still shocked, after all this time.

_ Right, left, left, left right- _

“Well,” says Red Robin, nonchalantly, “yes.”

They turn rapidly around the corner and come across a massive freight elevator. Superboy shakes his head, grins, and chuckles a bit in amazement, because his boyfriend is  _ amazing.  _

He opens his mouth to say just that, but Red Robin shakes his head, gestures to the door with only the slightest of smiles to hint his amusement.

“Compliments later. Opening elevator with brute strength now.”

Superboy laughs, steps forward to do just that.

“Is that the real reason you keep me around, huh? For my muscles?”

“Oh no,  _ however _ did you figure me out?”

“I had my suspicions ever since you complimented me on my charming personality. Everyone knows that I’m an absolute drag with no life whatsoever.”

Tim snorts, hooks his arms around Kon’s neck and steps out onto empty air without hesitation, trusting that the taller boy will fly them to freedom.

“Yup. The truth is, I hate you. I’ve been using you for your strength all along.”

“What a tragedy,” Conner says melodramatically, but they’re both grinning at each other in the dark of the elevator shaft, streaks of light illuminating their faces and vanishing again in less than a moment as they zoom upwards.

The fresh night air, once they break through the ceiling and escape across the rooftops, tastes like victory.

  
  


A few hours later, they find themselves sitting with their legs thrown over the edge of a skyscraper, the world below lit up by street lamps and neon signs. Red Robin’s takeaway coffee is warming his fingers even through his gloves, although his ears are still cold from a combination of his wet hair and the brisk wind. 

If Bruce finds out he's drinking coffee this late, he's going to be  _ pissed _ .

And really, Tim has a thousand things he should be doing. He should re-wrap the hasty bandage around his arm. He has about three dozen trackers placed on various equipment and people from the base to put online. He should check in with his family, make his report and make sure they know where he is and that he’s alright. He should check that he  _ is  _ alright, considering the fact that his head still aches and his thoughts are still filtering a little hazy.

But it’s quiet up here, high above the rest of the world. Isolated and safe, in a way, especially after the dizzying rush of adrenaline from the escape. Tim drinks his coffee, inhales the scent of Metropolis, lets it go.

It’s nothing like Gotham, but it’s nice, still, in its own way.

But then again, he’s biased.

Kon sits beside him, swinging his legs and staring off into the middle distance, the breeze ruffling his curls, messing with the collar of his jacket. He still looks a little gaunt, as if the green glow of the kryptonite is somehow stuck under his skin. 

Red Robin gives a cautious survey of his surroundings and then carefully knocks shoulders with the other boy. Smiles, crookedly, when Kon raises his eyebrows at him.

“You alright?”

Huffing out a laugh, the taller teen tilts his head back and gazes out at the nonexistent stars. 

“Doin’ okay. A bit tired and achy, but that’s to be expected. You?”

Tim shrugs.

“I’m fine. My head hurts, and I think I might need a couple of stitches on my arm….  _ But _ , on the bright side, I saved your ass, and thus I’m winning our knight in shining armour competition once more, as it should be. How’s it feel being the damsel in distress?”

Kon groans, points accusingly at Tim.

“You  _ planned  _ this, didn’t you? This is revenge for the whole Prince Charming schik.”

The shorter teen sticks his tongue out, lets out a little evil cackle.

“When I get my revenge, it’ll be far grander than a little kidnapping tirade, rest assured. Also, I’m offended that you’d think any kidnapping operation I’d pull off would be as sloppy as this one, just for the record.”

His boyfriend smacks at his shoulder, lightly. Tim simply leans with it, letting the momentum carry him before pulling himself back, taking a long, obnoxious slurp of his coffee as he does.

“I hate you.”

“Uhuh.”

“You’re the  _ worst.” _

“The absolute worst, it’s true.”

“Wait, no- Rob, you’re not allowed to invert my insults. It’s illegal. You’re supposed to disagree _.  _ That's how bantering  _ works.” _

“No can do: I’m trash.”

“Stop it, stop it, I take it all back, you’re amazing, you’re awesome, you’re glorious-”

“Trash. Trashy trashy trash. Complete and utter garbage. I am trash and trash is me-”

“Oh my  _ gods,  _ Rob,  _ please.” _

And Tim- laughs, can’t help. Drinks another sip of coffee and smirks at his boyfriend, watches the other boy grin in return.

“I guess,” says Kon, “that I can handle being the damsel in distress with the sure knowledge that, when it comes to getting team members out of trouble, Wondergirl has us  _ both  _ beat.”

Red Robin pauses. Considers. Cassie  _ has  _ saved the pair of them a rather ridiculous amount of times.

“Okay, true, but then you just get promoted to Advanced Damsel, so enjoy your new title and all that schmuck.”

“Hey, I  _ resent _ that-”

They talk. They bicker. They fall into warm, comfortable silence, and time passes in trickles and spurts.

A car, below, swerves wildly around a meandering pedestrian and honks its horn. Kon hums..

“Crazy night, huh?”

Tim drinks his coffee. He’s seen crazier.

But when Kon’s fingers creep closer to entangle with his own, he doesn’t let go.


	11. a particularly majestic ballerina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be posted Last Wednesday *facepalm*
> 
> Will post what was today's chapter on Wednesday!
> 
> It's been a crazy week
> 
> No Chapter Warnings

“Superboy!”

Kon-El blinks. He blinks again.

And suddenly Clark is before him in his full Superman get up, floating through the air like a particularly majestic ballerina, toes pointed and everything. 

“...Hi?”

The man smiles, sits down besides Kon far above the rest of the world. Wind whistles across the window panes, and an entire city’s worth of people chatting and sleeping and living their lives echoes.

Conner doesn't know what to do with Clark.

For so long, he had been ridiculously angry with the man. He had wanted so desperately to be loved and accepted, to be  _ cared for _ , to have meaning beyond just being a weapon, that every fumbling exchange between him and his gene donor had only served to piss him off further.

Clark hadn't been ready for a kid. Especially not a traumatized lab-grown teenger with only a fumbling sense of self.

And now, later, now that they’re both a little older and a little wiser, now that Kon has the friends and Tim and Ma and Pa, now that they've both figured themselves out a bit and settled firmly into some sort of brotherly dynamic-

Well. 

Kon doesn't really know what to do about it.

But Clark's trying, and Kon is trying, and that's what matters.

Or, at least, that's what Tim tells him on facetime when the hours stretch long in the middle of the night and the thoughts inside his head are a hurricane. His boyfriend always says it with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, something painful wrinkling at the edges of his brow.

Conner feels better hearing it, but always has to resist the urge to pry. Always finds himself trying to offer comfort to one of the thousands of demons hiding in Tim's chest.

Because that’s what you do when you care about people: you try and help, even when you ache.

(He wonders how many people in the other teen's life never tried at all.)

“How have you been doing?"

Kon refocuses on the world around him, offers a nonchalant shrug, tipping his head back and searching for the faded stars in the Metropolis’ night sky. The city is alight with life, and he keeps his ears open for any sort of trouble.

It’s rare he chooses to patrol here in Superman’s city. He usually sticks with Jump, catching up with his friends and tracing pathways through familiar streets. But still, still, there’s something about Metropolis that’s charming nonetheless, and it’s good for both of them to talk. Probably.

“Lex Luthor tried to sneak in some one-on-one bonding. Again. That was interesting.”

Clark frowns.

“Another kidnapping attempt?”

“Yuuup. It was a  _ time,  _ let me tell you. Red Robin was there.”

Superman opens his mouth, pauses, and disappears in a flash of blue and red. Somewhere downtown a little girl happily thanks him for her rescued cat, and within moments he’s back again.

“Sorry about that- you’re both alright?”

And Conner smiles, because all their conversations end up like this, with them dropping in and out to rescue a city full of people and popping back in- continuing like they never left off. It’s almost a game.

“We’re fine: those guys were amateurs. Just annoying.”

Humming, the older man offers a concerned look at a particularly dapper looking pigeon. His shoulders hunch up a bit, curling around his ears, and Kon almost asks him if  _ he’s  _ okay when his gene donor turns to him and sets a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, Superboy- I know you and I… we haven’t always gotten along. And I know that things are a little crazy right now with your personal life. Just know that if you ever need me for any reason, I’m here for you.”

And funny, that, how you can spend a year so angry and hurt with someone and find them becoming something like a friend some months later. It had involved far too many drawn out dinners and awkward patrols, Red Robin acting as a mediator between them and Tim offering consolation and advice in the aftermath, but-

But still.

Funny.

“Thanks, Superman, I’ll- I’ll keep that in mind.”

A warm smile, a half hug, and then the older Kryptonian is gone, off to save the day. 

Kon-El watches him go.

And then his sensitive ears catch onto a robbery starting up a few blocks away, and he smiles, rises to his feet, and shoots off into the sky.


	12. spoken like a true narcissus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Here's the promised chapter <3
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Anxiety

“Tim, Tim, look at this one. _Look,_ it’s adorable. I mean, it’s _us,_ of course it’s adorable. But this is somehow even _more_ adorable than normal.”

Tim, from where he has his head buried in his pillow, from where he had been trying to actually take a nap _for once in his life_ , pointedly does _not_ lift his head and take a look. 

“Spoken like a true narcissus.”

Kon, from where he is scrolling through twitter, takes no offense to the implied insult and simply continues to rub his hand up and down Tim’s back in a pseudo massage. 

“ _Shh_ , Tim, we are both beautiful people, and there’s no shame in admitting that.”

Tim groans from the depths of his soul. Life is a cruel, cruel mistress, and his boyfriend is an idiot ~~(whom he loves)~~ , but at least his pillow understands.

His _pillow_ doesn’t talk back. His _pillow_ doesn’t obsess over their new claim to fame as boyfriends and scroll through their tag on Twitter just for the fun of it. His _pillow_ doesn’t make him interact with the outside world just because it’s “good for you, Tim,” and because he looks “like a zombie, Tim.” 

If only his boyfriend would be so kind.

If only his boyfriend would let him _take a nap._

But, alas, no. His dumb heart had to fall for a chatterbox. 

A happy, bright, sunshine filled chatterbox with a ton of redeeming qualities, but a chatterbox nonetheless.

Tim sighs, relents, and finally turns his head sideways so that he can see the world instead of the dark abyss of his pillow case. His room is as it always is, curtains closed and air conditioner softly blowing, posters splayed on the wall and cluttered nick knacks on every available flat surface, and then some on not available surfaces. Clothing scattered on the floor, books and his various assortments of technological devices, a general mess of existence.

Although, the door is wide open, which _is_ a break from the norm. This can be entirely blamed on Jason, because the older boy had heard the two of them were going to escape the family madness and hide out in Tim’s room for a while, and had immediately wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner that must be precoded into all annoying older brothers everywhere.

Which is… no. Just no.

Kon is propped up, lazy, working his way through a bowl of popcorn and still on his phone. If the shorter boy tilts his head a bit, he could probably catch a glimpse of the various fanarts and discussion threads being looked at.

He doesn’t tilt his head.

Instead, he says, “But you gotta admit, though, that it is a bit conceited, to just… peruse what other people say about you.”

Kon hums, scrolls some more.

“I dunno. I think it’s kind of funny, I guess. Almost sweet? They like us just because we’re _us,_ and they don’t know anything about anything but they’re still willing to put in a ton of time and effort and support. It’s sort of weird, yeah, but I don’t think it’s bad. It’s... cute.”

Tim tries to get his mind around what his boyfriend is saying, and he supposes, distantly, if he squinted and tilted his head _just_ so, he could see it. But then he tries to imagine actually reading all those comments, tries to imagine actual people all over the world looking into his life and his personal relationships and at him, _him, all those people staring at him,_ and-

And, well, it makes something inside his chest compress tight and cold and hard. 

He’s never done well with people paying attention to him.

Lack of practice, he guesses.

“Wait, wait, I just thought of the most _brilliant_ idea.”

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“What if we took a picture for them? Me and you? Like, we could take a picture, and I could post it, and then all of them would be like ‘Aaaaaah! They’re so cute! I love them!’ and it would be _awesome!”_

“How about… _no_.”

“But Tim, they _loooove_ us!”

“And I _loooove_ not having my photo taken.”

“Please?”

“Nope.”

“Pretty please?” 

“No.”

“What if I added a cherry on top?”

_“Kon.”_

And Kon- laughs. Gentle. Teasing. Slides down so he’s laying next to Tim instead of sitting besides him, rolls over and closer till they’re face to face. 

Tim looks at him. His eyes are very blue.

His own eyes feel very tired, strained around the edges.

But Kon laughs, laughs, and that cold something inside of him settles. Relaxes. There are no intruding gazes here, at least. No one to judge or cast aside. Kon teases and jokes, but that’s all there is to it. He’s safe here, and he’s learning to accept that.

“Got it, got it,” chuckles Kon, blue orbs glittering with something fond and warm. When he speaks, his voice is soft, quiet. His hand is still making soothing patterns up and down Tim’s back. “No pictures, no videos, no Q&A’s, nothing. Radio silence to the fandom front on all accounts for a hundred thousand years.”

He blinks. His eyelids drag up slow.

“A hundred _billion_ years,” Tim says, just to see Conner huff out a laugh. 

“As you wish.”

He closes his eyes, properly this time. They’ve somehow grown very heavy in the last few minutes. He thinks that his new meds are working a smidgen _too_ well: he’s been cloudy and sleepy all afternoon. He thinks there will be some other time to deal with that, but not now, not in this fragile, dream-like moment that is soft and warm and perfect.

“That’s a good film, we should watch it,” he mumbles, or at least something close to it. He finds that he doesn’t particularly care if his words are perfectly clear either way.

“Hmm… go to sleep, Tim. We can talk when you wake up.”

He doesn’t respond: he’s already drifted off.

  
  


Roughly an hour later, Conner's head snaps up when he hears soft feet pad down the hall. When a wayward Cullen appears in the open doorway with Harper in tow, he smiles awkwardly, waves, puts a finger to his lips.

He doesn't know these two most recent additions to the batfamily as well as he knows some of the others, but he's sure, in time, that he will. (But, then again, by that time Bruce's chronic adoption problem might have resulted in thirty new names to memorize. Who’s to say?)

"Hey," he whispers, double checking that the noise won't wake Tim up and pleased when his boyfriend sleeps obliviously on, "what's up?"

Cullen offers a small smile in return, whispers back just as quietly, "Oh, nothing. We just wanted to make sure you guys were alright. There was a reporter camping out in the tree outside being all creepy and stuff. Don't worry though! Harper totally took care of him. He's being taken into police custody with a broken arm as we speak."

Harper offers him a casual little _'sup_ nod. Conner, not knowing what else to do and going on autopilot, offers one back.

This is…. a lot to take in. He thinks he's mostly stuck on the tone in which it was all said, casual and maybe even a little bit upbeat, as if one was discussing a particularly picturesque rain shower instead of presumably knocking stalker dudes out of trees and watching their arms get broken, or perhaps actively breaking said arm. 

Conner can’t really tell.

He has a feeling that even though they're new, these two fit right in with the Wayne household. 

He swallows.

"Uh, thanks, I guess?"

Cullen quirks another small smile.

"No problem. Have a nice day!"

Conner watches them go, then whispers, near silently, to his sleeping boyfriend, "Your whole family terrifies me."

Tim doesn't respond. Simply snorts softly in his sleep and rolls over.

_Dork._

Conner loves him.

* * *

“We need someone to distract the media. Pictures, videos, Q&A’s, _something._ It’s vital that no one notices us missing from the scene.”

Slowly but surely, everyone’s faces turn towards him.

Tim sets his face into his best glare. Unfortunately, his entire family is made of expert glarers, and Duke is the only one polite enough to look mildly unnerved.

“No."

"Tim, c'mon, you know that they'll eat it up. And you _know_ we wouldn't ask unless it was an emergency."

".... I hate you all."

"Attaboy, Tim!"

"Yeah, yeah, but you guys _so_ owe me for this. Big time."

Tim watches his family disperse, knowing soon enough one by one all of them will vanish into the night to do actual _fun_ things, like punching thugs in the face and disarming bombs.

And he'll be here. At a _party._ Getting his picture taken. 

Sometimes, Tim hates his life. 

_Dick_ wouldn’t have done this to him.

...but, then again, Dick is kind of the only one who's been truly informed about his preoccupation with being a media spectacle. Which means that the only one he can really blame for this entire situation is himself.

As per usual.

Sighing, he steps back into the fray, plastering a smile on his face and weaving through the crowds until he finds Kon by the snack table. The other teen offers a wave and a grin, looking awkward yet devilishly handsome in a tux. 

Tim tries for a smile of his own, feels it come a bit more natural at the sight of his boyfriend, but even Conner in a tux isn't enough to relieve the tenseness gathering in his shoulders.

"Hey," he says, cutting right to it, "remember earlier today how I was like we're never going to interact with the media ever?"

Kon nods slowly. 

"...yes?"

Tim grimaces.

"Change of plan."

* * *

"So, here's what's going to happen." 

They're sitting together in a window seat of the gala's host socialite's manor. Tim is doing his best to look relaxed and Conner is just looking at Tim, waiting for instructions and an explanation, knowing from years of following this young man that it will come.

"We're going to sit here together for a bit, pretend to talk for a while, be very clearly and obviously in love, and meanwhile all the paparazzi terribly hidden in the bushes outside are going to take a hundred thousand pictures and call their fellow reporters. Then, when those guys come bombarge us, we'll try to leave and fail for several minutes until we're attracting a lot of wondrous attention from all sides. Cool?"

Kon is looking at him too closely, seeing him too clearly. Tim's fingers twitch, wanting to wring each other out and pick his nails bloody, and just resisting. Relaxed, he needs to look relaxed. And happy, if he can, and totally in love. But he'll settle for relaxed.

"Yeah," Conner says, "I'm cool with that. But are you okay with that? You seem… tense."

Well, then. Failed step one.

Shit. 

_Relax, relax._

_I'm fine,_ he wants to say, but what comes out instead is, "I mean, I don't really have a choice either way. People are in danger."

Kon doesn't protest that, knowing all too well that certain weight of responsibility that comes to rest on your shoulders with the mantle of a hero. It would be hypocritical if he said anything against that logic, and Tim could and would call him out on it. 

Instead, he asks, "Okay, then, what can I do to make this as painless as possible?"

Tim's hands are vibrating in his lap. Just beyond the curtain to his left are dozens of cameras. They'll soon all be directed at him. 

"Limit kissing. Like limit it _way_ down. And don't answer any personal stuff. Please."

"Done and done."

They share a grin, a little weak around the edges but still there. Then Tim breathes a fortifying breath, squeezes Kon’s hand, and parts the curtains as if he wants to peer up at the sky.

And here's the thing, he's a _good_ actor. Acting content and put together even when he's anxious or bored is something he's been doing at his mother's instruction since he could talk. Working with Bruce and Alfred has only honed his trade into finer expertise.

But he's well on his way through a fake conversation about his interests in astrology before he realizes that they never let go of each other's hands. 

The paparazzi is going crazy outside, and he can hear a dull roar of oncoming stampeding reporters. He breathes around the anxiety stemming in his chest and focuses on Kon's face as he talks about some old camping trip or another.

He counts at least seven hidden bodies in the surrounding hallway. 

But he pretends they're alone, that everything is fine. He laughs when he thinks he would laugh in a normal conversation. Responds when the other boy's words falter, recognizes that this can't just be tricky for him.

And then Kon leans forward, smiling, gentle, says so soft in a voice nearly silent, "I'm going to kiss your forehead now. Okay?"

He realizes his knuckles are almost white with how hard he's clenching them. Relaxes them. There are so many eyes and they're all directed at him and he _hates_ this. 

And Kon is looking at him with eyes that are too knowing and too kind. Tim’s performance is almost perfect: very few people besides top trained professionals would see anything at all wrong with his body language or facial expressions or vocal intonations, and yet Kon can read him, still.

It terrifies him. It makes him feel safe. And how strange is it, that he trusts Conner with his life without hesitation and still struggles everyday when it comes to trusting him with his emotions?

Tim closes his eyes and blocks the rest of the world out, feels the smooth press of Kon's lips to his forehead.

Which is, of course, the exact moment everything bursts into chaos.

The sudden influx of reporters on scene happens all too quickly, and he forces himself to do a small little jump in feigned surprise, putting space between Conner and himself and staring out at the gathered crowd of screaming paparazzi with exaggerated wide eyes. 

Kon still hasn’t let go of his hand, the only real signifier of his boyfriend’s nerves. Cameras flash, and Tim just _knows_ that tomorrow morning, their picture is going to be _everywhere._

The red that crawls up his cheeks and ears at the thought of that has nothing to do with acting. 

_“Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne, what developments have occurred in your relationship since you’ve come out to the general public!?”_

_“Kids, look over here!”_

_“Mr. Kent, what’s your insider’s view on the Wayne family!?”_

_“Why did you both start dating!?”_

_“Conner Kent, what’s your sexuality!?”_

_“Do we hear wedding bells ringing in the distance?”_

_“Smile for Teen Gothamites!”_

_“Share your favourite date!”_

_“Mr. Drake-Wayne, any updates?”_

_“Why haven’t there been any further press conferences?”_

_“Timothy Drake-Wayne! A question for you-”_

They’re like vultures. The whole lot of them, _vultures,_ and Tim clings to Kon’s hand and keeps his head low, hoping his boyfriend is doing the same and knowing that he probably isn’t, instead staring right at the cameras and allowing all the good face shots the paparazzi could ever want.

But, then again, it’s probably good for Kon’s identity. Farm boy Conner Kent wouldn’t know a thing about dealing with the press. But maybe Timothy Drake-Wayne would have given his boyfriend pointers? He’d have to think about it, but as of now he can’t do much about it except-

_Focus, Drake, focus._

He breathes out a quick breath through his nose and dodges around recorders and cameras alike with an ease that comes from years of practice and training. Slowly, carefully, calling out just enough responses to keep them interested, he leads the loud trailing herd behind them closer and closer to the main ballroom of the gala, thus attracting _more_ attention, until everyone and their mother is looking Tim’s way.

_(So many eyes-)_

Bruce sends him a look from across the way, concerned and proud in one, and turns to vanish with the rest of the family.

Tim watches them go with longing, and then resigns himself to his most terrible duty of making sure no one else notices the sudden absence of Wayne's.

Purposefully, he angles himself so that the guy behind him knocks right into poor, small, so very _terribly_ clumsy Timothy Drake-Wayne.

He goes down with a crash, grabbing onto a tablecloth of a nearby snack buffet as if trying to catch his balance and instead sending scatterings of food and drink down with him, including a particularly artful splash of sparkling orange juice right onto his head, if he does say so himself.

For a moment, the whole hall is filled with silence. 

And then Kon leans down and helps him up, turns to _glare_ at the reporters, and says angrily, protectively, “You _happy_ now? Gods, why can’t you just leave us _alone?_ ” 

Right on cue.

Tim immediately puts himself into his role. Hunches into himself lightly, makes his eyes water, curls closer to Kon’s larger frame, playing up their scant inches of height difference. Anything and everything he can to make himself project _weak_ and _insecure._

His boyfriend wraps an arm around his shoulders, leads him out the front door of the manor with a ‘you should all be better than this’ expression firmly set upon his face. The paparazzi try to follow, of course, perhaps a little more sheepishly than before, but Alfred is waiting for them right outside and the pair of them soon make their escape.

As soon as the doors close, Kon turns to him, eyes earnest and wide.

“How’d I do?”

Tim finds himself smiling despite everything, pushing down the anxious thrum inside his chest in favour of reassuring his boyfriend of a job well done. He feels jittery, exhausted, and he's been dealing with being a public figure his entire life. He can hardly imagine how Conner must feel.

There's a tingling tension at the back of his neck, something vaguely nauseous curling in his stomach. The anxious flush from all those _fucking_ _eyes_ directed right at him is going haywire in all his systems, and his body's too hot and then it's too cold and his feet are going numb.

He can feel his fingers start to shake, and he casually tucks them closer to himself and out of sight to hide the trembling. 

This is fine. Tim's _fine._ No need to bother anyone about anything because this is normal and he can handle this. He can. 

_Cameras flashing and the orange juice trickling down the collar of his shirt and fuck what are they saying? why are they looking at him he must look like such an idiot, Conner must hate him Alfred must be so ashamed, what would his parents have said shit shit shit-_

Kon is distracted, putting on his seat belt, thanking Alfie. Tim takes the few brief seconds allotted to him in order to try and _calm the hell down_ , and by the time his boyfriend is looking back his way he's got something like a smile on his face.

“Perfect, you were perfect. Worthy of Brucie Wayne level acting. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

And they do.


	13. them gay bois, they be rollin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GREETINGS YES I COME WITH THE GOODS
> 
> (also?? is this?? PLOT?? in MY fic?? more likely than you think)
> 
> No Chapter Warnings

_ Oh my god OH MY GODS! GUYS! _

_ *cries* it’s so beautifullll _

_ PLEASE, someone please gif the forehead kiss. I need it immediately and forever _

_ How does someone make sopping wet orange juice hair work? Like how? It shouldn't be possible. _

_ Conner is so protective! Awww <3 _

_ you guys aren’t seriously falling for this, right? like, this is so obviously a stunt pulled to grab the media’s eye because they’re complete attention whores. their whole relationship is one big shitty scam _

_ Oh my gods that forehead kiss tho- _

_ three guesses as to what my new phone lockscreen is, and the first two don’t count.  _

_ it can’t be legal to hound after a couple of kids like that, right? like no way is that in any way acceptable _

_ [Not necessarily! Bruce Wayne has actually already sent out a couple of lawsuits.] _

_ [ahhhh thanks!] _

_ If you look at the photoes you can see how bright red Timothy’s ears are and it’s *adorable* _

_ Me, watching Timothy Drake-Wayne fall on his face: *Poetic Cinema* _

_ Soooo cuteeee <3 <3 <3 _

_ Metropolis boy has officially won me over. I need me a man like THAT. _

_ FOREHEAD KISS FOREHEAD KISS FOREHEAD KISS _

_ all of you small minded tator tots salivating over these two boys when Cassandra Wayne is literally RIGHT THERE.  _

_ Look at them gay bois. They be rollin _

_ hello yes unfriendly fucking reminder that even if a bi guy is in relationship with another man it DOESN’T FUCKING MEAN THAT THEY’RE SUDDENLY GAY _

_ i can’t, they’re too perfect for each other, I CAN’T _

_ MY CROPS ARE WATERED MY SKIN IS CLEAR MY GRADES ARE UP _

_ That was such an epic fail of a fale, though. Like, every possibel thing that could go wrong WENT wrong. Poor Timothy. _

_ i’m telling you, the sooner everyone focuses on dick grayson again the happier i’ll be _

_ THEY LOOK!!! SO HOT!! IN SUITS!! _

_ You guys are all disgusting. Seriously. These two kids were hounded by the press when all they wanted was some alone time and all you do in response is continue to invade their privacy and coo about how cute they are, like they’re some sort of china dolls instead of actual real life people. Get a life. _

_ look, i get where your coming from, but these guys are famous. paparazzi and all that are to be expected, and there’s no harm no foul in us taking some enjoyment from that. besides, if they didn’t want people looking in, why did they come out in the first place? _

_ There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to start. Actually, wait, no, I do, because it was UNWARRENTED PAPARAZZI PHOTOS TAKEN WITHOUT THEIR CONSENT THAT CREATED THIS WHOLE MESS IN THE FIRST PLACE. _

_ {More Under The Cut} _

_ bhGAIjRrfFFLIM20h8MkNSSkjFYvTfgHVYTIjlt75n _

_ Im dying, they’re too cute, im dying, someone call an ambulance _

_ 20BITEEN IS A MOST BLESSED YEAR _

_ i dunno, guys, i still think that Tim could do better than a metropolis boy. _

_ Conner Kent doesn’t even  _ live  _ in Metropolis! He was just born there! _

_ still tho _

_ you guys are literally all so pathetic. they’re not even that good looking _

_ *whispers* i’ll kill you _

_ CAN SOMEONE PLEASE SEND ME GIFS?? EACH ONE ADDS A YEAR TO MY LIFE _

_ the protective aura radiating from Conner is honestly all i need in this cruel cold world _

_ Honestly what a vibe check. Like. WOW. Timothy really didn’t pass. _

_ i have literally been watching the footage from the gala on repeat. like, man- the drama of it all, like poetry in slow motion. the forehead kiss?? the flailing fall?? the protective arm over Timothy’s arm?? *chef’s kiss* Bloody Fantastic _

_ New Username > TimConStan _

_ God Making Timothy Drake-Wayne: _

_ *a cup of super genius _

_ *a gallon of hotness _

_ *a dash of clumsiness - whoops! _

_ *me, wacking back the hordes with a toothbrush* THEY’RE FRICKEN MINORS LEAVE EM ALONE _

_ I wanna hug them. I wanna hug them and put them in warm fuzzy towels straight from teh dryer. I wanna give them hot cocoa. What an awful time :( _

_ who wrote a fic after weeks of hiatus because of writers block SOLEY because of last nights events? THIS GIRL _

_ Hello, yes, I would like to order myself a beautiful boy with big muscles who would willingly shout at the press for me and gently kiss my forehead with love and tenderness please and thank you _

_ i wonder what they’re doing right now? i wouldn’t even know how to function anymore, though i suppose they must be used to it... _

* * *

Kon watches Tim try to suffocate himself with a pillow, face absolutely buried in its soft confines and the occasional muffled indecipherable groan escaping into the general air every few minutes.

He probably could have figured it out if he really tried, but as of right now he was completely distracted by the high pitched buzzing of the fly zooming around the high walls of one of the manor’s many sitting rooms.

It was annoying as all hell. 

“Talk to me.”

Tim lifts his head.

“I hate  _ everything.” _

“No, you don’t.”

A sigh.

“No, I don’t.”

The fly zooms in closer to Tim, and Kon gently shoos it away. Refocuses as his boyfriend lets out another bone deep sigh and rotates so that his head is on his thigh.

“Sorry I’m being all grumpy. I just…  _ really  _ hate this entire situation.”

He hums, shakes his head, shoos that  _ blasted  _ fly away again.

“No, it’s fine. I get it. It was a little overwhelming for me, too.”

If Kon focuses, he can hear Tim’s heartbeat. The way that it’s been pounding too fast and is finally, finally starting to slow down to a more normal tempo. It had only taken three hours after getting home and taking a shower, and he listens, listens to how it’s slowing down even  _ more,  _ almost like Tim is-

“Hey, hey, are you falling asleep?”

Tim snorts awake, obviously having almost fallen into a doze. 

“Wha? Er- No. Of course not. Sleep is for the weak.”

But Conner just frowns. 

“Are you feeling okay? You’ve slept basically all day today.  _ And  _ yesterday. Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”

“No- No, Kon I  _ don’t  _ have a fever. Hey, stop that, stop it, I promise you I don’t have a temperature-”

Tim bats Kon’s reaching hands away, sits up properly and tries to give his best impression of an awake and fully functioning human being.

“I promise, I’m fine. My meds just have something in them to help me sleep, is all, and they might be a little too strong.”

“And you’re severely sleep deprived.”

“...and I am severely sleep deprived.”

Conner opens his mouth to say something, twitches a little when the  _ fly comes back- _

“You know, there is a way we could- Gah- oh  _ not again-” _

Tim’s attention snaps into focus.

“What? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” says Kon, obviously wincing at something, “nothing, it’s just that there’s this fly buzzing around and it’s  _ super  _ high pitched and it  _ won’t go away-” _

The shorter boy’s eyes narrow at the flying black blob, and then, fast as lighting, a hand reaches out and-

Snatches it right out of the air.

Kon stares. Tim scrutinizes his captured prize.

“Not a fly,” the bat says, “a camera.”

And then, half a beat later-

“Demon brat, I swear, if you keep trying to spy on me I will never  _ ever  _ tell you what the handshake means. Give it  _ up  _ already.”

He hands the small buzzing sphere to Kon, who looks at it incredulously. 

“Destroy this for me, would you?”

Kon blinks. “Sure,” he says, smashing it between his index and thumb finger. The bug makes a high pitched wheezing sound as it dies. Somewhere, in the distance, there's a frustrated yell. 

“You kind of scare me, ya know.”

Snorting, Tim leans against Kon, tucks his feet underneath him.

“Sure. Now tell me what you were going to say.”

“What?”

“‘There’s a way we could… what?”

He looks down at Tim. Tim, who’s finally starting to properly loosen up after their meet up with the paps. Tim, warm and soft in his maroon sweater and messy bun, curled up by his side. Kon doesn’t want to ruin the moment, but at the same time...

“Oh. Oh  _ that.  _ Well, I was just gonna say that there’s a way we could get away from it all, for a while. The media and the stares and all that junk.”

Tim snorts.

“Time travel?”

When Conner laughs in response, it’s a little less natural than he would like. 

“Yeah, maybe… or we could go and visit the farm for a week or two. Hang out, get away from it all. Ma and Pa are just  _ dying  _ to meet you and I can show you-”

But Tim is sitting up, pulling away, something tight pulling around his eyes.

“Kon…”

And this, this is what he was afraid was going to happen. Because Tim can be half asleep and completely relaxed, and yet the minute any mention of Smallville comes up he recedes, shrinks into himself, withdraws. 

“Tim.”

The shorter boy licks his lips.

“I just don’t think that that’s a great idea…”

Conner’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah, but  _ why?” _

“Can we not, right now? Can we just- not? I’m tired, Kon.”

And he looks tired, too. Bags under his eyes despite all the extra sleep he’s been getting, pale and gaunt looking, fingers ever so finely shaking, curling quickly into fists to hide the trembles.

So Kon breathes. He lets it go. He wants to say,  _ you don’t need to hide that you’re scared from me.  _ He wants to say,  _ this is really important to me and you keep closing the conversation before it even starts.  _ He wants to say,  _ you’re not being fair.  _

But he’s tired. And Tim’s tired. And it’s been a long day. 

So he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says instead, “okay, not tonight.”

But as the conversation moves on to different things- Bart’s new haircut, Gar’s new post on a vegan restaurant, Damian’s antics- he can’t help but think,  _ if not right now, when? _

But Kon doesn’t ask, and Tim doesn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heheheh
> 
> pls don't kill me


	14. hey there demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM EXCITED FOR DUKE CHAPTER YES YES INDEED  
> No Chapter Warnings

Jason’s safehouse leaves a lot to be desired.

For one thing, it’s ridiculously far away from the manor. For another thing, it looks like it’s one firm breeze away from being blown to the ground completely.

Duke takes one look at it and then back at Tim, raised eyebrows firmly in place.

“Why am I not surprised that he chose a meetup point that looks like the start of some shitty horror movie?”

Tim shrugs: he’s reached a state of existence where nothing surprises him anymore.

A slightly exasperated grin, and then Duke is calling out across the dilapidated yard, “Hey there, demons. It’s me. Ya boy.”

Snorting, Tim shoves the other teen's shoulder and treks up to the doorway. His backpack bounces a bit from the uneven gravel road, the mass amounts of carefully packed equipment inside  _ hopefully _ not jostling too much. He peers at the rickety walls of the approaching building and wonders how much of it is actual unstable architecture and how much a cleverly designed ruse to dissuade thieves.

Doesn’t matter, either way.

“I call dibs on being the idiot who decides our best chances of survival is to split up.”

Duke shoots him an appraising look, keeping pace besides him.

“Oooh… in that case, I call dibs on being that one white girl who survives through the entire movie against all odds and lives on, forever changed by the experience.” And the teen looks off into the middle distance, face screwed up in some dramatic longing expression, and Tim finds himself laughing.

They knock on the door.

Jason opens it readily enough, his ankle in a brace from a poor landing the night before due to a particularly lovingly crafted sheet of ice courtesy of Mr. Freeze. The older man grunts at them to take off their shoes and disappears further into the house. The heaters are blasting even though it’s not all that cold outside, and Tim, awkwardly, takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack above his boots. 

He wonders if Jason keeps the house warm because the cold reminds him of living on the streets, or his time spent six feet under, or a bad mission, and then he pushes the psychoanalyzing aside and tries to refocus.

Duke has already left, the dark green of his t-shirt flashing as he vanishes around the corner. Tim blinks, blinks, all his processors working at their slowests speeds, and then trudges after him.

Man, he’s tired.

As always, the living space his older brother keeps is immaculate. Jason is spreading out files across the small coffee table, eyes narrowed in concentration. Duke is rifling through his own backpack sitting next to him, pulling out a thick manilla folder and starting to organize his own papers in accordance to Jason’s previously set up parameters. 

_ If this keeps up,  _ Tim thinks,  _ it’s going to look like an episode of Criminal Minds in here.  _

And then he plops down on the singular arm chair to the right of the table, leaning forward to get a glance at the evidence.

“What’ve we got?”

Jason shrugs.

“About everything I could get my hands on, but I  _ know  _ there are bound to be softcopies on some server somewhere.”

Duke hums, peering over at Jason’s pile. 

“I’ve collected as much as I could, too, although there’s typically fewer deals going down in broad daylight.”

Tim nabs the paper closest to him. He recognizes the particular weight and colour of it as being the same kind Alfred stocks for the printer in the library, and it makes him smile, thinking about his older brother sneaking into the manor in the dead of the night in order to print some files.

But the actual words on the page wipe the smile clean away.

“Explosives?” he asks, and Jason’s lips thin. Duke offers the older man a concerned look before turning back to Tim, fingers tapping against his knees with unspent energy.

“Unfortunately, yeah. And a lot of them.”

  
  


They mess around for a couple of hours, trying to figure out what's going down and just  _ why  _ any operation would need so many explosives. A few ideas are tossed around, none of them pretty, and eventually they dissolve into companionable science. Tim works through online servers on his laptop, trying to figure out some source or another, while the other two sort through and compile evidence.

Finally, Jason throws in the towel, flipping the papers in his hands into the coffee table and standing up to stretch.

"You guys up for some breakfast dinner?"

Duke also puts his papers down, reaching up to run at his eyes. 

"Sounds good, Jay, thank you."

Tim, for his part, continues staring at his screen, offering an absent-minded thumbs up. Jason snorts and flicks his ear on the way to the small kitchen on the other side of the room.

He keeps his eyes at the pages of information passing through his laptop. He's in the  _ zone  _ and-

And Duke reaches out and pokes him in the cheek a couple of times, tearing his gaze away and forcing him to refocus on the world around him.

"Yes?"

Duke shrugs. 

"Didn't want you to rot your brain. Take a break: come back to it later with fresh eyes."

And Tim-

Tim breathes. He's tired. He's very tired. His eyes are getting that same scratchy feeling they get when he stays up too late, even though it's hardly dark out. 

He breathes.

"Okay."

And then he shuts down his laptop and puts it aside, agreeing to a game of Slam while they wait for Jason to finish making dinner. They'd help, of course, but the space in the other room is pretty limited, something Dick would call a "one butt kitchen only."

So instead they're playing Slam, using the cards that Duke has scavenged from his backpack.

….Slam is an evil, evil game.

It's a game of speed. It's a game of violence. It tears families apart faster than one could yell out its name.

Tim lets out an unholy noise when Duke finishes sorting through his piles of cards and starts careening his hand towards the shortest stack. The other boy is cackling, but Tim is determined not to lose this time, hastily jamming his palm over the pile  _ just  _ before Duke can.

Sort of. Their fingers splay awkwardly over the cards, crossing over each other. It's anyone's guess as to who got there first.

The two boys glare at each other, a force of wills in the balance.

_ Uno? Haven't heard of her. She's nothing in comparison to the relationship destroyer that is Slam. _

Before an argument can break out over who has to take the bigger pile, Jason calls them over to eat, and they reluctantly leave their card game in order to feast on pancakes and sausages that have no right in being so good.

The older man, who is shoving eggs into his mouth like he's about to audition for the role of Gaston, asks, "You guys planning on staying the night?"

Duke and Tim trade looks.

"If you'll have us?"

Jason shrugs.

"It's fine by me. You're gonna have to figure out sleeping arrangements for yourself, though."

Which is, of course, fair enough.

And later, later, after Tim has been soundly beat at Slam- but only because the other teen has been having Alfred teach him his secret masterful British ways- Tim finds himself setting up on the floor. His borrowed pillow is kind of floppy and Jason's sleeping bag has more than a few neat patches fixed over tears, but it's warm enough that he doesn't even feel the need to curl up inside of it.

Duke has taken over the couch, knees tucked up awkwardly to his chest because of its small size. However, he doesn't seem to mind. He's looking at Tim, eyes serious and focused, flashing in the dark. 

Outside, crickets are chirping, soft and loud and soft again. Tim's trying not to fall asleep to it.

"You doing okay?"

Quiet, quiet. They're both all too aware of Jason snoring just down the hall. Duke's brown eyes seem to sear into his own 

Tim clears his throat, looking up at the ceiling. There are glow in the dark stars imprinted across the rough white plaster, and he wonders if Jason was the one who put them up there or if they had been like that when the older man had taken over the place, and had then decided to let them stay.

He wonders.

Kon had texted him earlier today. Asked him how he was. How his day was going. Tim had talked about the case, had sent him pictures of his stack of sinfully fluffy pancakes. His boyfriend had responded in mind, describing the farm, sending him pictures of the lasagna the Kent family had had for dinner, and no small amount of images of the Kent's themselves, happy and smiling and open.

_ they say you're welcome anytime!  _ had been one of the captions, and reading it had made something tight and cold coil in his stomach. 

Dread, maybe. Or guilt.

Both, probably, if he was going to be honest.

Tim breathes. Duke looks on.

"I'm fine."

Their picture had been on all the tabloids today, and quite a bit of the evening news to boot. Kon's lips pressed against his forehead, his own orange juice slicked hair. There'd been a newspaper on the table this morning, at breakfast, and both of their faces had been splashed across the front page. Tim hadn't been able to tear his eyes away, fingers curling sharp into his palms and fire ants crawling through his veins. 

Cass had taken one look at him, stood up, and thrown the entire thing into the trash. 

The whole wide world is looking in and Tim's still trying to learn to breathe around it.

But there is no one else. Not here. They're miles away from Gotham and the house is quiet and still, except for the crickets, and Jason's chainsaw snores. The only one really looking is Duke, and his eyes are soft and warm, and they hold no judgement. 

Tim knows. He knows this is probably by design. He's not  _ stupid.  _ If Duke and Jason really needed someone to work the servers they could have used Oracle and gotten done in half the time, or otherwise just have had him do the research from home. 

But Duke had offered him an escape. Out of the manor. Out of the city. Catch a little fresh air and a little time away from it all, if only for the night. And Tim had agreed, because he was tired, and because he could.

Kon had offered too, of course, but-

But that felt like less of an option and more like a death sentence.

He breathes. Duke stares, and his eyes flash in the dark the way brown eyes sometimes do, hidden depths blinking out just underneath the surface.

Or maybe those are just Duke's eyes, and his powers acting up, making them seem brighter and more reflective than they actually are.

"Are you really?"

And Tim-

He's got nothing to give. He feels exposed, lying on his back, staring up at the scattered plastic stars. There's something tight in his throat.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. Really."

Tim's capable of being honest with himself about his emotions. He finds it much harder to be honest with anyone else.

Duke's still looking at him, and Tim wonders how much he can see in the dark. If he can tell that Tim's hands are shaking, even as his eyelids weigh heavy.

"Tim."

"Yeah."

"You don't have to be fine. I mean- if you don't want to be."

The sharp, jerky nod he gives in response shouldn't feel as brave as it does, but he gives it anyway. He wonders if Duke is going to say anything else. He wonders if there's anything else to say. 

But he's already slipping, slipping, his eyes shutting without his permission, the crickets dragging him under, and all there is is the deep and quiet dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slam is a British game and it destroys relationships even faster than UNO! Please play it and suffer with me :3 :3 :3
> 
> Me an my fam have spent far too many nights on high tension Slam Tournaments built on speed and desperation. Too many.


	15. deeply weird, but sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really liked how this one turned out :3  
> No Chapter Warnings

Kon rolls his eyes and backlogs  _ another  _ tag. As soon as he thinks he’s figured out all the nasty things people come up with, the internet proves him wrong and flings even more…  _ interesting  _ artwork and fanfic recommendations.

Ridiculous people not tagging their shit right. Kon wants to  _ bleach  _ his  _ eyes. _

Also, people are seriously underestimating Tim’s abs. Which is a strange thing to get huffy about, but it is what it is.

And here’s the thing, here’s the  _ thing.  _ Kon doesn’t mind fanart. He thinks it’s cute. He likes that people like him enough to draw art, or even write fanfic, or whatever-

It’s sweet. Sort of.

Really and deeply  _ weird,  _ but sweet.

But here’s the thing, here’s the  _ thing.  _ Tim would actually have a conniption and erase the entire internet if he ever took the time to actually sort his way through everything everyone was posting. Tim  _ hates  _ the idea of people looking in without him able to block them out, even if the ones looking in are harmless- if not horny- fans with some rather wild imaginations.

And Kon is Tim’s boyfriend. And that means making sure he’s comfortable, even if that means backlogging half the world wide web.

Rubbing at his face and feeling a little squirmy underneath his skin- as flattering as the thought is, he really  _ does not  _ want to see other people’s interpretations of his body,  _ thank you very much- _ he abandons his laptop and makes his way down the stairs. He half expects Martha’s cheerful reminder to trod lightly on the creaky steps, before recalling that she’s at a convention the next town over. Something about outlawing the shooting of mountain lions.

Instead, he gets Jonathan’s voice, warm and rumbling, calling him to the kitchen to help out with making dinner. Half for wanting a distraction and half for the fact that he actually kind of likes chopping vegetables and helping with prep, Conner goes willingly.

Knife and chopping board in hand, he starts cutting up vegetables as evenly as possible. He’d like to say he’s pretty good, because this had been his job with the Titans after that one disastrous occasion where they had tried to give Bart the position of dinner prep once.

(The speedster had set upon his duty with gusto, only to quickly reveal that he’s actually  _ terrible  _ at avoiding his own fingers while chopping at the speed of sound. Blood had been everywhere. So much panicked screaming. Bart was assigned drying dishes for the rest of his days.)

Not that it matters, really. But the reminder makes Kon smile nonetheless. It’s  _ nice  _ to feel good at something, to feel like he can contribute to the world outside of fighting bad guys and being a hero- which is something he loves to do as well, don’t get him wrong...

However, there’s something to be said about feeling like he’s more than the weapon his creators intended. It’s why he helps with the laundry and works on the tractor and preps for meals. It’s why he goes to school and relishes in group projects, why he jumps on opportunities to learn about trivial things like knitting and how to press leaves and flowers. Why he picks up hobbies and hangs up posters and collects birthday cards and action figures.

It’s also why he loves loving Tim. Loves the way his boyfriend’s laughter crinkles the corners of his eyes and the way the other teen can babble for an hour and a half about whatever current research project he’s investigating.  _ Loves _ the way Tim loves  _ him, _ smiles flashed in greeting and kidnapped cookies smuggled off the Manor’s grounds, the way his boyfriend endulges him and shows him how to do tricks on a skateboard, lets him call in the middle of the night, quiet voices whispering in the dark.

Weapons don’t get to have this. They don’t get to have hobbies and chores and friends and boys who love them and they love in turn. 

They don’t get to make dinner with their parents, quiet in the kitchen except the evening birdsong and the scrape of a wooden spoon against the bottom of a pot, sloshing broth and chopping vegetables.

Kon has this. 

Kon is not a weapon.

Pa has started whistling, mimicking the chirping outside their window. Conner lets the sound wash over him, a creaking household that’s become home, his pseudo-father’s heartbeat pounding steady and strong, on and on. 

He has  _ this. _

And later he will listen as Jonathan recounts stories from his college days, will recall tales of his own from botched missions, shenanigans from the tower and adventures while patrolling, that one time Cassie attempted to fit an entire bag of gummy worms in her mouth.

Put aside the world. Put aside the monsters and the deaths and the terrible actions people commit when they are desperate and cruel and unkind. Put aside the world that pushes in too close and stretches on too wide, swallowing horizons. 

Just for now. Just for a moment. The sun will come up tomorrow and he will face it with every ounce of passion and fire growing in his chest, but for now-

Jonathan laughs at his story, and Conner smiles into his bowl of soup, feeling the warmth settle under his skin.

Kon loves being a hero. He loves being able to use his powers for good, to save people from a world so often unkind and unfair.

Kon  _ loves  _ being a hero, but he loves being a person more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you Saturday!


	16. cutie patooties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some shenanigans :3  
> No Chapter Warnings

**BRUCE WAYNE TO OPEN UP LGBTQ+ RESOURCE CENTER**

**PENGUIN CAPTURED: GCPD PENDING ON STATEMENT**

**WHICH WAYNE KID ARE YOU? TAKE THE QUIZ NOW!**

**TIMOTHY DRAKE-WAYNE: GAY OR BISEXUAL?**

**BLACK BAT SIGHTING - NEVER BEFORE SEEN PICTURES!**

**20 TIMES TIMOTHY DRAKE AND CONNER KENT WERE ABSOLUTELY ADORABLE**

**METROPOLIS AND GOTHAM: THE FEUD CONTINUES**

**FIFTEEN REASONS TO LOVE THE WAYNES**

**TIMOTHY DRAKE-WAYNE CAUGHT ON A DATE!**

* * *

“Tim, _Tim_. Hey, Tim, wake up!”

Tim blinks. Feels sluggish and slow. 

The meds are definitely too strong.

“ _Tiiiim~”_

_“Whaaaaaat~”_

“Wake up, wake up, wake up-”

He blinks owlishly at Kon, who simply grins like the cat who got the cream. He would ask what the taller boy was doing here, but at this point he’s pretty sure Conner just flew over and Alfred let him in without question.

He blinks. It should _not_ be legal to be this tired. Tim feels like he’s done nothing but sleep for days.

But he sits up, trying not to feel self conscious about the ratty wonder woman pajamas he borrowed from Stephanie and never gave back. 

“I’m awake. What’s going on?”

Kon beams again.

“We,” he declares dramatically, “are going to go on a date.”

"....what?"

" _We_ are going on a _date."_

Tim blinks.

"No, we're not."

"Yes, we are. You've been cooped up in here for days, and as your boyfriend I have made an executive decision to get you out of the house for the day."

Kon looks at him. Tim looks back. Blinks once, twice. He wants to argue he’s been out patrolling, but somehow he knows that’s not exactly what Kon meant.

"I'm going back to sleep," he says, quite calmly, and then he flops back down onto the mattress.

"Nope. Denied. You have been stopped. I will physically pull you out of bed if I have too."

Without looking up, Tim responds, "And _I_ will take out the kryptonite Bruce has me carry everywhere and _physically stab you in the eye._ "

Kon doesn't even pause.

"C'mon, grumpy pants, it'll be fun! We're gonna tour around the new bird watcher park in Metropolis, and then on the way back you can stop at that one cafe you love so much. You get to bring your camera, take some pictures, a low-key kind of area on a low-key kind of day…"

Tim considers it. He _has_ spent the last few days basically sleeping except for the family’s nighttime activities, and it's been _ages_ since he and Kon went out together one on one, and they would be in Metropolis, so less chance of getting caught, and-

And it sounds fun. Very fun. 

"...fine. Give me ten minutes and I'll be ready to go."

Pumping the air in success, Kon leans in and kisses him on the nose, which is cute and weird all at once. His boyfriend then bounds to the door, practically skipping, before freezing right in the entryway.

"Hey, you don't actually carry Kryptonite on you, do ya?"

Tim smirks into his pillow.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Kon laughs, clicks the door shut behind him, and Tim gets up to find his camera and put on some proper clothes.

* * *

Dramatically posing on a log, Kon sings out a poor rendition of 'Agony' from _Into the Woods_ , spurred on by Tim's quiet laughter and his own sense of absurd humour. He can't remember half the words and he's pretty sure he's switched keys at least six times in the last five bars, but he feels what he lacks in talent he makes up in style.

"Wait," his boyfriend says, smiling bright with his phone sneakily lifted, "wait, no, do that again, Kon-"

The other teen willingly repeats said movement, a strange full body wiggle mixed with an improvised, jumping sort of moonwalk. It's ridiculous and terrible, and when he turns around to laugh at it with Tim, he sees the camera.

"No, wait- Tim, are you _filming this-_ "

But his boyfriend just smirks, nodding with a laugh and then yelping when Conner runs down to grab him, trying to delete the incriminating evidence. The shorter boy squirms, using underhand tactics to get free- _“Did you just lick me!?”-_ and then sprints away at full speed, vanishing up a tree in seconds.

Which, when Kon can’t use his flying powers, is _so_ unfair.

But, on the other hand, it’s a major improvement to Tim a couple of hours ago, eyes darting to every bush and shadow in search of paps and watching onlookers, suspicious and withdrawn.

But it’s a big park, and there are hardly any people, and now they’re here.

Except-

“Boo!”

The voice comes from behind him, and Kon whirls around to find Tim grinning cheekily at him, something bright in his eyes and pulling at his smile. 

“ _How.”_ Kon says, deadpan, because he has _super hearing,_ but Tim just smirks and shrugs.

And then Kon’s eyes narrow.

“Wait- what did you do with the video?”

Tim's smirk, if anything, gets _wider._

“Let’s just say that Cassie, Bart, and Gar aren’t going to leave you alone for _weeks-_ ”

He presses a hand to his heart, trying to hit the right tone of outraged shock used in soap operas everywhere.

“You are a cruel, cruel being, Tim. Absolutely heartless.”

Tim nods solemnly, pats him on the head.

“Revenge is sweet. Next time you think about serenading me under my window, I want you to reflect on this moment.”

Kon turns, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. It’s getting harder and harder to keep a straight face.

“I _trusted_ you,” he wails, just to see Tim cover a snort. 

“A terrible decision, really.”

Conner freezes.

“Was that Tangled?”

“….maybe.”

A pregnant pause.

“Okay, look- Dick has this _thing-_ ”

* * *

Nearly two hours later, they’re camped out on a park bench. The sun is warm and bright above them, the sky is a rather brilliant shade of blue, and Tim is swinging off his backpack to shift through it.

He's exhausted, but he's pushing through it. Spending time with Kon is more important.

“Okay,” he says, eyes focused as if facing a much more grand task then setting up for lunch, “I brought sandwiches, chips, and some of Alfred’s cookies.”

“Wait, you brought _food?”_

Tim blinks, looks up at Kon, who’s staring at him with eyes filled with utter adoration of a hungry man in need of calories.

“Yes, of course I did. Why wouldn’t I? I’m _prepared._ ”

His boyfriend nods, eyes the PB&J’s.

“Have I ever told you I love you? Because I love you. _So. freaking. Much.”_

Tim chuckles a little bit under his breath, shoves over five of the sandwiches and two bags of chips, opening his own ham sandwich and trying to hide his smile.

“You could stand to say it more.”

Kon, of course, takes this in the most literal sense possible, slides as close as he can and swings his arms around him, crying out muffled _I love you_ ’s with every chew.

And Tim smiles, checks for anyone watching, and then leans in to kiss his boyfriend’s cheek, turning it into a massive raspberry halfway through just to hear Kon let loose a groan.

* * *

Conner crouches down lower to the ground, confused but unbothered by the sudden, frantic demand. Besides him, Tim keeps swatting his shoulder repeatedly in tiny subconscious movements, eyes excited and wide.

"What-" he starts, but Tim puts a finger to his lips, points with excited hands to a nearby tree.

When the other teen speaks, it's barely louder than a whisper.

"You see it?"

Kon follows Tim's guiding finger, spots a medium sized bird with mottled brown plumage hiding in the foliage.

He lowers his volume to match Tim's.

"What is it?"

"It's a Mississippi Kite. They're actually pretty rare outside of the mating season, so we're really lucky to see one, especially so close! I mean, look at him, he's _beautiful."_

Raising his camera, Tim takes a few quiet, careful pictures. He scoots to the side a bit, and snaps one leaning awkwardly over his boyfriend's shoulder. Kon doesn't seem to mind, laughing silently, leaning with the weight. 

They sit and watch for another ten minutes until the kite flies away. At some point, another pair of birders had joined them, grinning and excited at the find. 

The minute it's out of sight, Tim and the woman with a camera burst into excited chatter, comparing photographs and tidbits on the best places to watch. Kon watches, eyes fond, nature sounds all around him.

The other woman nudges Conner's elbow. Asks, crinkles around her eyes and mouth deepening with her smile, "You just along for the ride, too?"

He laughs.

"That obvious?"

She smirks, tilts her head towards Tim and the camerawoman, who were still comparing notes and sharing birding stories. "It's always pretty obvious when you're _n_ ot a hardcore twitcher. Besides, anyone looking at _anyone_ like you were doing your boy is obviously in for a completely _different_ sort of view, if you know what I mean-"

Kon snorts, blushes red all up to the roots of his ears while the old lady gives off a well-meaning cackle. Tim shoots him a look, questioning, but he simply waves it off: it's all in good fun.

Eventually, they part their separate ways, Tim and Kon heading out to head to the cafe and the two women heading deeper into the park. They wave, say their goodbyes, and start their slow ambling exit. 

"So," Conner asks, "are you going to show me the pics you took?"

Tim blinks at him.

"Are you interested?"

"Of course, that's why we're here, isn't it?"

Tim grins, turns his camera back on and shows him the screen. Kon pays attention, _oohs_ and _aahs_ at all the right moments. He's interested, alright, but mostly in the way it makes Tim smile.

* * *

_does anyone have the gif where timcon catch someone filming them and conner does finger guns while timothy hides his bright red tomato face in the background. cause i need it. FOR REASONS._

_That’s one of my favourite gifs! XD Here ya go!_

_Dorks, they’re both such DORKS and i LOVE THEM._

_Duke Thomas has my entire S O U L ( ꈍᴗꈍ)_

_hey all, friendly reminder that Tim is BISEXUAL not gay. just cause they’re both dudes it doesn’t suddenly change his sexuality_

_↑ !!!! It’s so important you guys!_

_whenever i feel like a sad boi i remember the forehead kiss and it is the sure-firest way to bring a smile back on my face_

_does anyone have any good fic recommendations?_

_Reblog if you love the Waynes!_

_Please just leave those boys alone, guys. They don’t deserve to be harrassed just cause they’re dating. Put yourselves in their shoes for a bit and try and imagine how that could feel_

_I’ve made an art!_

_New username > TimConIsTheBest333 _

_guys! I saw them! I SAW THEM. They were walking out of a cafe together and they were holding hands and my HEART-_

_I’m so jealous oh my gods_

_luckyyyyyy_

_DOYOUEVERJUSTCRYOVERPEOPLEBEINGTOOCUTE_

_mood_

_Things I love in This World:_

  * _The Waynes_


  * _The Wayne’s significant others_


  * _That is all_



_You are all such suckers. It’s so obvious that this was just a publicity stunt and nothing more oh my gods-_

_oh wow a homophobic comment how new and original SAID NO ONE EVER._

_Look at them guys, look at the cutie patooties, looooook at themmm_

_Jpg.pic_

_*me, vibrating at the intensity of a thousand suns* If anyone slanders Harper Row’s good name I will kill everyone in this room and then myself_

_Do you ever wonder what’s going through their heads? Like, what are they thinking about, right now? What are they doing? And we’ll just like- never ever know. Food for thought, I guess._

* * *

“I bet I can blow a bigger bubble than you.”

“Oh, you are _on._ Hand me some gum. _”_


	17. embarrassing for everyone involved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *knows nothing about Star Wars and Star Treck*  
> Also Me: *writes a chapter full of references*
> 
> please forgive me if you're a hardcore fan. I tried XD
> 
> Hope you enjoy the fluff <3  
> No Chapter Warnings

“TIM!”

A blur of sweatshirt and particularly glaring hot pink, and suddenly Tim’s arms are full of Bart. There’s a semi mouthful of the teen’s pigtails in his mouth and the hard press over a dozen hairclips against his cheek.

And Tim laughs, just a little, gives Bart a squeeze and waves at the room as a whole with one arm, tilting his head up to avoid the grand majority of the thick brown locks trying to worm their way further into his mouth

“Hi, Bart. Long time no see. I like your hair.”

The speedster nods faster than normal laws of physics would usually allow, beaming all the while. When he speaks, his words come out in one long continuous blur, and it’s only practice that let’s Tim follow the meaning.

“It’s been _so. long._ You are never allowed to not visit for so long _ever again._ Also thank you! Cassie did it for me!”

Choosing that moment to join in the hug, the young woman in question rests her chin on top of Tim’s head and offers a nonchalant shrug.

“I need the practice. The kids at the camp I volunteer at keep asking for me to put their hair up and because I can’t exactly practice on my own… Bart is my test dummy.”

“And I look _fabulous._ ”

“And he looks fabulous.”

“Of _course.”_

Just when Tim was about to ask for the others to _maybe possibly stop squishing him please_ , Kon enters the room with armfuls of snacks, takes one look at them, and declares, “You guys are doing a group hug _without me?”_

And then his boyfriend is joining in, and there is even more squishing, and Tim looks skyward and endures because it’s no one’s fault but his own that he chose to be a part of the touchiest-feeliest group alive.

...It’s also kind of nice. With everything that’s going on, he’s missed his friends. 

But he also isn’t complaining when they finally release him, looking a little too smug for the hug attack to be anything less than planned, settling back down around the different couches, discussing movies they could play as background noise while they caught up.

Tim reaches into his duffel bag and pulls out a truly _massive_ tupperware of Alfred’s cookies. Barbara had distracted the rest of the family while he had packed them up, shooting him a wink and mouthing _you owe me a favour_ as he snuck out the front door.

Something tells him there’s going to be another prank war in his immediate future. At least _this_ time he’ll be on Babara’s team instead of opposing her.

But still: cookies for his friends. Whatever Barbara’s devious mind comes up with, he’ll execute it with the professionalism a cookie heist ally should always commit too.

Interrupting the debate between _Storks_ and _The Karate Kid,_ Tim digs further into his bag and starts pulling out his carefully chosen prizes.

“Actually… I was thinking we could switch things up today and _start_ with the antics rather than get into them halfway through the film.” 

Antics, or course, are a given. They were- and, to an extent, still are- a bunch of unsupervised teenagers holed up in their very own specially personalized base. The only thing that’s _really_ up to debate is _when_ said antics will occur.

“And so,” he continues, harbouring some small hope he might actually get to finish uninterrupted, because he is foolish and _never learns,_ “I brought-”

“Are those _lightsabers?”_

Kon is looking at him with stars in his eyes, Bart is quite literally vibrating with excitement, and Cassie is giving the toy weapons an appreciative one over.

(He never, never learns.)

 _“Nice_ lightsabers,” she says, and Tim very carefully doesn’t reveal how _relieved_ he is to hear that, because spending over an hour online searching for the best possible version of a ridiculous coloured plastic stick belonging to a fandom he’s not even really in just isn’t his picture of a good time. It was _anxiety inducing._ Even if it was for the sake of his boyfriend- who very much _is_ in said fandom- and for his two other friends who would get a ridiculous level of joy from thwacking each other with said plastic sticks.

The things Tim does for these idiots.

“This,” he hisses at all of them, “is _not_ me admitting my undying love for Star Wars. I still uphold Star Trek as the superior franchise.”

“But Tim! Space swords. _Space. Swords._ ”

He turns on Kon and pokes him in the chest. “But where’s the complexity? The _depth?_ ”

This is an old argument.

This is a _very_ old argument. 

Bart and Cass chat idly as the couple’s conversation dissolves into nothing but a friendly shouting match with a lot of passion. Tim’s going off on his well rehearsed rant about how Star Trek is an exploration of a universe that had transcended hate and was free of poverty. It’s not something any of them haven’t heard before.

Bickering. The oldest love language of them all.

Cassie leans over and whispers in Bart’s ear, a smirk firmly planted on her face.

“I can see what’s happening.”

_“It’s about the fight of good and evil. That is literally what we do every day.”_

_“Except the evil we fight actually makes sense? How on earth does the Empire continue to rise up and rule the galaxy? Like? Where are they getting these resources?”_

Bart looks up at her, confusion written all over his face, the sleeves of his eye sore of a sweater flopping down and hiding his grip on his lightsaber.

“What?”

_“It’s a massive space western drama! The politics behind it don’t matter.”_

_“It does matter when you’re expecting me to sit through nine movies worth of material. Utterly out of order, by the way!”_

She splays dramatically on her shorter counterpart, gesturing with her extended lightsaber at their two besotted idiots, taking a special sort of cheer in bopping both of them on the head and getting hardly a blink as a reaction.

“And they don’t have a clue!”

Catching on now, Bart grins before making his face as solemnly morose as possible. This is very difficult to do while wearing neon pink exercise shorts and butterfly clips in your hair, but he does his best nonetheless.

“Oh,” he bemoans, and wipes away an imaginary tear.

_“The Machete Order is the only order. This is the way.”_

_“...That was a reference, wasn’t it. That’s your making a reference face.”_

Bursting into loud conjoined singing, Cassie and Bart lean against each other and holler loud enough that possibly the entirety of Jump City can hear them, _“OUR QUARTET IS DOWN TO TWO.”_

The argument on Star Wars versus Star Trek comes to an abrupt halt. Kon and Tim turn simultaneously to their friends, matching mock scowls painting their faces.

“Get them?” Kon asks, grasping blindly for a weapon of his own.

“Get them,” Tim agrees, his own red stick of plastic firmly in hand. 

Bart and Cassie take off screaming, Tim and Conner in hot pursuit.

They had to stop occasionally, of course, adding rules and switching out lightsabers. The unofficial snack table became a base of sorts, as long as you were actually there to refuel and not just hiding out. Powers were okay, as long as you weren’t going to be a jerk with them. Dramatic deaths were highly encouraged, especially if you were able to pull off mysterious vanishing or long, drawn out cries of seeing the light and returning to the force. If you _do_ die, then you have to switch teams.

Mood music is a must. Tim had to finagle with the Tower’s system’s for some minutes, but now it was prepped with tension music until a fight could break out. Again. 

“GO! GO! GO! GO!”

Leaping over the couch and landing in a sprint, Kon led the charge away from the living room, Tim following close behind him, and Cassie cackling as she chased them down the hall.

“We’re _screwed,_ ” Red Robin hisses, grip sweaty on his lightsaber and unmasked eyes desperately searching for a hiding spot. There’s some sort of thumping chase scene music echoing through the corridor, almost drowning out Bart’s delighted cackle. 

“Think positive!” Kon yells, and ducks under a projectile pillow sailing through the air.

“I’m positive we’re screwed!” Tim snarks back, and turns to meet Cassie’s swinging lightsaber with a defensive strike of his own.

Bart stands before Kon, hair in some approximation of two buns that rather look like sad clay clumps made by a two year old. For himself, Kon has rescued an old sheet, wrapping it around his shoulders and head in an attempt to mimic a robe.

The speedster looks pleadingly up at the young man standing on the back of the couch, hands clasped together in front of him in his desperation.

“Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hoe.”

Kon feels his face twitch. Bart's already muffling giggles into his arm.

Someone starts cackling in the pantry.

_“Dammit, Cass, do you not know the meaning of a sneak attack-”_

“How could you _betray_ me!?”

Tim looks down at Cassie with cold eyes, meeting every speedy swing with a block of his own. Lightsabers clashing again and again, a rather impressive amount of flaunty flips thrown in between every meeting between red and blue. Bart and Kon sit on the sidelines in a temporary truce, waiting to sweep their new recruit away to the dark side as soon as the battle is over.

Occasionally, they call out scores. He’s not entirely sure, but he thinks their marks are based on how truly unnecessary an aerial move was needed between one clash and the next.

Is this bullying? Tim is pretty sure this is bullying. He worked _hard_ in order to be able to do these flips! He deserves to show off every once in a while when he’s not in dangerous life and death situations. 

“You left me no choice! You betrayed the way of the jedi!”

He has no idea what she’s saying. He’s literally just saying the lines feeded to him by Cassie, who wrote him a little script back when she was still on his team. She had shrugged while doing it, whispering, “Bart likes doing reenactments,” and Tim had gone along with it.

Because all his friends are truly, truly ridiculous.

And also in _vast_ need of touching up on their stealth. Perhaps he should set up some training…?

His thoughts are brought back down to earth when he absentmindedly takes a swing and Cass purposely flings her arm up to take the hit instead of her saber. The smacking noise has Tim flinching, has him burying down some instinctive reaction to make sure she’s alright despite her near invulnerable skin.

But the girl is already on the ground, wailing over her “severed arm” and about “the betrayal,” sounding vaguely like a dying cat, or Jason when you make his water turn cold mid shower.

Kon and Bart are laughing, and Cassie’s eyes are happy underneath his dramatics, and Tim relaxes his grip on his lightsaber in increments, breathes through his nose, and tries for a smile. 

They play. The hours stretch. A couple of things get broken and a couple of bruises are added from hasty escapades, but it’s fun. Tim relaxes into it, lets the time pass him by and tries not to think too closely on all the things he should be doing, on the world happening outside. His body keeps signaling him to sleep, his brain responding to stimulus in quiet drawled out ways, and in all honestly nothing sounds better than a nap-

But he ignores it the best he can and keeps up with his energetic, clear minded teammates. Today isn’t about him.

Either way, he’s relieved when they switch over to sitting on the couch and watching movies, their compromise being a marathon of the KungFu Panda films. Cassie has long since loaned him a pair of yoga pants, and he runs his hands over the soft fabric as they chat quietly. On screen, Po goes through his training montage with Master Shifu. When Bart finishes another bowl of popcorn and stares morosely at the sad unpopped kernels left behind, Tim offers him a smile and grabs the empty dish, heading to the kitchen for a refill.

Bart shouts his praises after him, and he waves him off.

The microwave wirves, the fan thrumming a quiet tune all to its own. Tim rubs at his brow and tries to push back the headache that’s slowly been building over the course of the movie, the bright lights and sounds combining with his already present exhaustion in his body’s classic betrayal of the day. 

He blinks, realizes he’s not alone in the kitchen.

And maybe he’s a bit paranoid, a bit on edge, but he whirls around and finds his fists clenched at his sides until he realizes it’s only Kon, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

 _Stupid,_ he thinks, _stupid,_ because the whole point of today was that it _wasn’t_ going to be about him.

So Tim puts on a smile.

“Hey,” he says, and it feels almost natural, even with the glare of the kitchen lights and the sounds of the popcorn starting to burst and the film mingling with their friends’ laughter in the next room, all coming together to grate at his ears.

“Hey,” his boyfriend says, and pulls him into a hug.

 _Touchy feely, touchy feely,_ some inane part of his brain sings, and Tim just sighs and tries to relax into it.

Conner hums, whispers, “Thanks for today. I had a lot of fun.”

And Tim tries not to feel too proud at that, even if it does mean he’s done this _right._

“Good,” he says, but it doesn’t feel like enough in contrast to all the space and noise. So he continues, resolutely making eye contact with the blender across the way. “I’m glad. I- I just felt like you’ve been doing so much for me, lately, especially with all this,” he flops his arms around in a useless manner, then stills them, “...craziness, that’s been going on.”

His boyfriend holds him tighter, and Tim carefully doesn’t wince, tries not to take notice on how red his face must be.

Why do human beings have to have emotions? It’s ridiculous. Having feelings is so detrimental to his well being, mostly because he sometimes has to _acknowledge_ them and that’s just embarrassing for everyone involved.

But he’s resolute. Kon deserves all the good in the world, and if that means it has to come from Tim opening his big mouth and spitting out something vaguely non-robotic, then so be it.

And so, quietly, he continues, “It’s just. You deserve nice things. Too.” 

The microwave beeps. Tim gives one last parting squeeze and then lets go. There was a time he feared hug etiquette would always be this terribly confusing monstrosity, but he thinks he’s gotten a pretty good hang of it.

Kon grabs the popcorn. They go back to Kung Fu Panda. 

He takes a sort of half-nap against Conner’s shoulder, the hood of Cassie’s _Steven Universe_ sweatshirt pulled up to block out some remnants of the light and noise. The sounds of his friend’s chatter washes over him from somewhere far away, and he half listens in while trying not to think of anything at all.

Sometimes, Kon laughs, and his entire body hums. Tim listens to the vibrations and drops in and out of consciousness.

And later, later, Cassie will practice braids in his hair, chatting about scholarships and basketball and training with Wonder Woman. Later, Bart will start all of them off by looking through fanart of human personifications of _Kung Fu Panda_ characters, eventually leading them down the rabbit whole of looking through the wider Disney Universe and other artists’ contributions to the cause.

They’ll spar, some, and talk a lot. Tim will keep awake through sheer force of will and they’ll all happily mock Kon on his heart-rendering performance of _Agony_ until he’s bright tomato red. 

Life goes on and on and on. The world spins, and the sun sets, and tomorrow he’ll have to go back into his everyday life, to the reporters and gossip magazines and far too many people looking in.

But for now, Tim is surrounded by his friends, soft and warm and something approaching a feeling of _safety._ He sits back. He breathes it in.

He breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost forgot to mention!!!
> 
> I totally based my establishment of Cassie and Bart (and really how the gang interacts) off of cryptocism on tumblr! Please go check out their blog because they are so funny and their art is to die for!!!


	18. a terrible idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Bad health choices & coping mechanisms

Tim taps across on the bathroom counter, the thrumming of his fingers as each one lands setting an almost soothing rhythm. 

_ Tap tap tap~ _

The bottle of pills sits innocently on its shelf. It’s  _ mocking  _ him, is what it’s doing, and Tim glares at it in the quiet of the room.

_ Tap tap tap~ _

He should just get it over with. Swallow two of them down and be done with it. A couple of little white pills shouldn’t feel this aversive. They’re just antidepressants. 

Except-

Except that now instead of being awake all the time now Tim is  _ tired  _ all the time, that kind of bone numbing exhaustion that weighs down on your eyelids even when you’re standing up. And he knows he needs sleep and he knows it’s important-

It’s just that-

_ Tap tap tap- _

Taking the pills makes him feel like there’s a wall of exhaustion between him and the rest of the world. It’s not a _ lack  _ of feeling, simply a vague kind of dullness, it feels like- it feels like-

It feels like he’s been drugged.

He has been. Technically.

It’s just- it doesn’t feel like he’s been drugged with over the counter, good-for-your-mental-health kind of drugs. More so the “a whole bunch of thugs have just kidnapped you and now you’re  _ trapped and out of control”  _ kind of feeling.

Or, well, not really, not  _ really,  _ nothing so extreme, it’s just that it’s _ close enough  _ that Tim’s brain made the connection and now it  _ won’t shut up about it. _

He hates not being in control, hates not being able to decide precisely when it’s a good time to pass out. Hates the flimsy fogginess that settles over his mind and sends something like  _ panic  _ flailing under his skin. 

_ Tap tap tap~ _

He doesn’t like these antidepressants. That’s the problem.

He doesn’t  _ like them _ .

Which is, of course, so  _ stupid.  _ Because they’re doing their job. Tim’s not feeling depressed. He’s functional and functioning and capable of human emotions.

And because they cost money. And time. And Bruce has already gone out of his way to get him this new prescription, and the  _ whole family _ has already gone out of their way when they put up with Tim’s really bad depressive episodes, and-

He swallows dry, thrums his fingers across the counter. The bottle of pills sits in his bathroom cupboard and he stares at them,  _ stares. _

_ Tap, tap, tap~ _

He doesn’t want to ask for too much.

That’s the thing. 

He  _ really  _ doesn’t want to ask for too much. Because at some point, he’s going to cross the invisible line in the sand, and it’s going to be one request too far.

_ Taptaptap~ _

Tim breathes harshly out of his nose.

Okay.

_ Okay. _

_ Figure it out, then- _

Tim can do this. Figuring things out is what he’s  _ good  _ at.

He’s not going to go to Bruce and try and get an entire new prescription for another bout of pills. And he- he doesn’t want to be taking what he  _ does  _ have anymore.

He bites his lip.

_ Tap tap ta- _

...There’s another option here. 

Is it a great option? No.

Is it an  _ option?  _ Yes. 

He could just…  _ stop _ taking  _ any _ of the pills. 

_ This is a terrible idea,  _ he thinks.

But is it? Really? He could just not take anything for a while. Just until his head is clearer. Just until he feels a little bit more in control of himself. He can always start taking them again if things start getting bad.

And who knows? Maybe things won’t start getting bad at all!

He closes his eyes. 

_ This is a terrible, terrible idea. _

When he quietly exits the bathroom, the cabinet falls shut behind him with hardly a sound, and the bottle of pills remains unopened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I may be taking some artistic liberties here, but just in case someone doesn't know this PLEASE don't quit your medication cold turkey, even if it's tempting. Talk to someone! Talk to your doctor/psychiatrist or your family or your friends. If you're feeling better it means they're working and you should probably stay on them. If there are side effects that are bothering you talk to your health care professional about changing the prescription: they're there for you and will be willing! There's usually gonna be some trial and error to get the right dosage and combination. Just stopping can lead to some really nasty side effects that result from the chemical withdrawal like headaches, vertigo, nausea, and others. Please be safe and talk with people who are there and wanting to help you. You're not alone. <3
> 
> [Big thanks to drgnsyr and Faeriepool for help with the above spiel]


	19. [oh shit]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Explosions, Police, Harm to Minor

_ Thoughts and prayers to Gotham, folks _

_ check in, everyone: we all accounted for? _

_ [You okay? I just saw the news] _

_ Shit- _

_ does anyone know what’s happening over there? _

_ Be careful, gothamite friends.  _

_ The next block over just got blown up and I can’t get the baby to stop crying. Just an average Tuesday, I guess _

_ fuck, are you guys okay??? _

_ We’re fine. We’re loading up the van right now- gonna try to get out of the city. It’s crazy out here! _

_ gods, this is terrible _

_ Anyone know the death toll yet? _

_ please look at this video i caught of Robin  _ literally  _ just scaling a brick wall with his bare hands, no grapple or anything _

_ vid.jpg _

_ Hope everyones okay _

_ Avoid Gotham Park! Poison Ivy Spotted Entering as of ten minutes ago! _

_ Any sightings of the batfam? _

_ several, yeah, looks like almost all of them are out. they’re trying to disengage all the bombs and clear civillians _

_ [hey, just thought i’d check in- please let me know you’re safe] _

_ Its reeeeeally weird seeing them all in the daytime _

_ What’s going on? The news is going crazy! _

* * *

**_MINOR EXPLOSION IN DOWNTOWN SHOPPING MALL: GCPD INVESTIGATING_ **

**_POISON IVY ON THE LOOSE_ **

**_GOTHAM HIGH WAY BOMBED_ **

**_FURTHER EXPLOSIONS ACROSS GOTHAM CITY_ **

**_KILLER CROC TAKES OVER THE SEWERS_ **

**_COMPLETE ARKHAM BREAKOUT: CIVILIANS ADVISED TO STAY INDOORS_ **

**_GOTHAM GENERAL HOSPITAL BOMBED: EMERGENCY SERVICES ON SCENE NOW_ **

**_JOKER SIGHTING IN CRIME ALLEY_ **

**_CARNAGE IN GOTHAM: 52 CONFIRMED CASUALTIES AND 79 INJURED_ **

**_FEAR GAS TOXIN LEVELS ON THE RISE_ **

**_BREAKING NEWS: GOTHAM IN OFFICIAL OF STATE OF EMERGENCY_ **

**_ALL CITIZENS TO BE EVACUATED FROM GOTHAM CITY_ **

* * *

It’s been eleven hours since the break out.

Thirteen hours of patrolling, of searching, of trying to find the monsters before they started carving chaos into Gotham’s street, and then of trying to deal with the aftermath when they inevitably failed. Too many criminals, too little time, and an entire city in an uproar by ten in the morning.

It’s one in the afternoon, now, and Tim cleans out his rebreather and blocks out the sound of sirens still ringing in his mind, still echoing faintly all around them in one of Bruce’s secondary secret bunkers. It’s cramped as all hell, with eight vigilantes all vying for space around a massive map of Gotham set up on the call board, trying to coordinate, react, and plan in the brief lull of activity they’ve found themselves in.

Not that he’s going to  _ admit  _ it to anyone, but Tim’s glad for the break. He’s thrown up twice since all this has started, and nausea is still rolling in his gut. He swallows around the bitter taste coating his mouth.

This is  _ fine. _

He looks around, tries to distract himself from the building headache growing behind his eyes. Everyone he sees is covered in soot and dirt and sweat. Most of them were up for patrol even before the prison break in the early hours of the morning, and he would bet his second favourite mug that every last one of them has been awake over twenty four hours, patrol or not.

He’s been up for just over twenty eight, himself. 

But his mind is getting away from him, unravelling, and Tim blinks and blinks, refocuses, tunes into the conversation just as Bruce starts handing out assignments.

“...Nightwing, you and Robin will be managing downtown. Two Face and Penguin are going through some sort of terf war and we need to evacuate civilians and deescalate the situation. Signal, Spoiler, you’ll be joining the GCPD in handling Poison Ivy at Gotham Park: hostage situation. Blue Bird and Black Bat will take the Narrows-”

Oracle cuts in.

“Red Hood is already on the scene, so just one should be sent his way. And they should bring antidote for joker gas. Lots of it.”

Bruce grunts, quick, fast, already recalculating. Tim knows that- if he were looking for it- he’d see the quick jerky down turn of the lips Bruce always gets when he’s upset.

“Change of plans. I’ll be taking Narrows. Black Bat, Blue Bird, you’ll be taking the warehouse district, Scarecrow was seen in the area and it’s the middle of the work day. Bring antidotes and wear your rebreathers. Red Robin-”

“B, GCPD wants back up on handling the evacuation. A lot of people are bottlenecked on the bridges."

Tim makes eye contact with Bruce through their masks, double checks his utility belt for supplies, and nods, calling into his comm and for the general room, “I can do that.”

He watches, watches, and  _ there,  _ the older man’s mouth twitches down for a flash of a millisecond. Batman doesn’t like it when any of his birds fly alone, especially with so many hostiles on the loose, but they don’t have much of a choice. 

The only consolation is that he hopefully won’t be dealing with any big name villains while he’s down there, just directing traffic and disencouraging dicy driving, protecting the exit point because  _ just in case _ is ingrained into all of them so thoroughly it's become a second skin. It’s probably safest, considering his current state, the shaky feeling in his fingers and stomach acid trying to crawl its way up his throat.

Tim keeps holding Bruce’s gaze, trying to commune  _ I’ll be okay  _ without any words, and not knowing exactly how.

But something must work, because three minutes later they’re all back out on the streets, rushing to their chosen destinations and pushing down exhaustion, a job to be done and people to save. 

_ It’ll be okay,  _ Tim thinks again, dropping down in front of one of the senior officers and already reaching for the closest road map.

The sirens are ringing, still, piercing and too loud. 

Tim breathes.

_ Ringing, ringing- _

“How can I help?”

_ It’ll be okay. _

* * *

It’s not.

* * *

_ Oh, man, you know its bad when gotham’s the one evacuating _

_ Shit shit shit shit shit _

_ I know the general warnings already gone out, but if you're in gotham and haven't already, make sure you put on your gas mask! _

THIS INCLUDES WHRN YOUR INDOORS!! YOUR HOUSE IS NOT AIRTIGHT PEOPLE!!!

_ Nightwing sighting! Just saw him go into one of the office buildings on 23rd _

_ [hey I just logged in (timezones suck) what the hell is going on?] _

_ [Arkham break out- a bad one. Half of the city is on fire and the other half is being gassed. There's also been someone blowing everything up: over twenty explosives found so far, and they’re still finding new bombs] _

_ [oh shit] _

_ Red Hood spotted in Crime Alley- he’s helping clear out civilians. Whole place is chock full of joker gas _

_ Stay safe everyone! _

_ man, it’s insane out here- traffic jams out of the city miles long. we’re all bottled neck on the bridge because of the wrecked highway and i’m gonna wake up tomorrow with the sound of honking haunting my nightmares _

_ DOES ANYONE KNOW WHICH ROUTE I SHOULD GO? _

_ The highway was bombed around 8:30, so that's a no go.  _

_ Red Robin is manning the Gotham City Bridge and it seems to be moving a little faster than the other exit routes! _

_ THANK YOU! _

_ No problem! Stay safe! _

_ guys i was just saved by blue bird and i have never felt so vindicated for being a raging lesbian in my life _

_ Be careful out there everyone! _

_ I know that now’s not really the time, but I can never wrap my head around the fact that there are just  _ _ so many _ _ heroes in Gotham! like where are they coming from? Do they crawl out of the sewers? how do you guys keep TRACK of all of them??? _

_ dude there are people literally dying and you wanna know vigilante statistics? C’mon, man- _

_ Time to break out the old gas mask! :D _

_ Signal Sighting! Rescuing hostages in Gotham Park! _

_ oh- _

_ oh no _

_ fuck _

* * *

Something’s bothering Tim.

He can’t put his finger on it, can’t quite put it into words, but something’s  _ bothering him.  _

It’s wiggling at the back of his mind, building up on itself, logic trying to squirm its way through the pounding of his head. Red Robin directs traffic, hands out rebreathers and antidotes, makes notes on safe places to camp down until the madness is over. He makes faces at little kids in their carseats to make them stop crying or complaining. He shares snack packs from his belt, and switches bridges whenever things start moving more smoothly, trying to spread his presence equally. He checks in with the police, checks in with the rest of the family, checks the scanners and the maps.

Something’s  _ wrong.  _

But he doesn’t know what it  _ is.  _

Just in case, just in case- he puts a finger to his comn.

“Hey, I could use some backup out here, if anyone’s available. There’s a hell of a lot of cars.”

Batman’s voice cuts in almost immediately, as if he was just waiting for the call.

“Coming.”

And just like that, silence on the other end of the line.

Right.

_ Right. _

Back to work, then.

And Tim does. There  _ are  _ a hell of a lot of cars, here, fleeing the city at its worst. Gothamites are a stubborn and thick skinned lot. They keep gas masks in their shoe closets and practice riddles in their free time, and for the most part the break out of a rogue is treated with a background concern as long as the villain’s still a couple of blocks away.

But even Gothamites know that full on Arkham breakouts are better to avoid all together.

Red Robin breathes, tasting the smog. His rebreather needs cleaning again, but it’s better to leave it on than to have no protection at all.

He feels feverish. Just a little bit. His forehead feels clammy against the back of his wrist.

Horns blare all around him, loud and jarring and everywhere. He moves people forward as best as he can, trying to make sure there are no further crashes or roadblocks, lamenting the destruction of the highway because all of this would have been  _ so  _ much easier-

The highway. 

_ The highway.  _

Everything clicks into place. It no longer matters how shitty he’s feeling because-

Red Robin moves, fast,  _ fast, _ sprints down the street and right down to where the traffic cops have set up by the entrances.

“We need to evacuate all the bridges.  _ Don’t  _ let anyone else on. And- and send in a bomb squad."

And then he’s gone again, dropping, swinging to the underside of the Gotham City Bridge, pushing past the unexpected vertigo and activating his comn along the way. Distantly, he can hear a news copter pulling in close. Distantly, he can hear the megaphones blasting for people to get out of their cars, to move,  _ move- _

“Hey, guys, remember how we were theorizing what the main event could be? I think I just found it.”

He can see the structural supports, reaches out, grabs one and releases his grapple, placing it on his belt. Carefully, carefully, he swings himself right side up, balances awkwardly on the strip of metal.

“Red Robin, what’s going on?”

Oracle in his ear. He searches for anything that could possibly be an explosive, tries to multitask, tries to make himself make sense.

“The highway was destroyed for a reason. Whoever it was  _ knew _ everyone would bottleneck on the bridges, and that that makes them…” he spots the bomb, painted the same shade as the bridge, hidden, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

But Tim was looking for it. He swallows back vomit. Keeps his tone clipped and steady.

“....that makes them an easy target. I’ve got eyes on an explosive on Gotham City Bridge. The others are probably also set to blow. I’m going to try and disarm this one.”

He creeps closer, jumping from one support beam to the next, wedging himself awkwardly into a corner to get a good look at the thing. Oracle is asking for pictures, Nightwing is asking him to be careful, and Batman is telling him he’s almost there.

Above, the bridge is still being evacuated. A toddler has started wailing, and the police's megaphones screech with feedback, people moving off of it in great hordes, officers directing them out of any potential blast radius.

Red Robin breathes, reaches for his belt, pulls out his utility knife. He opens the paneling up, carefully, slowly, hardly daring to breathe.

And then he feels his heart sink to his stomach. Feels time slow down until every millisecond feels like an hour.

“Shit.”

His heartbeat is in his ears. He can’t move. His eyes flicker, his brain races, time goes slow but he can’t  _ move.  _

It could be the fever. If there is a fever. His head pounds and he can’t fucking  _ think- _

Batman,  _ Bruce,  _ sounding like he’s running, breathing harsh and fast. A clamour over the comns, asking for intel, asking in concern, but mostly Bruce, determined and very, very afraid.

“ _ Red Robin.” _

And then Tim  _ is _ moving, leaning in, holding his breath. Looking for a way out of this, looking for something, anything-

“There’s a timer. Twenty-eight seconds, twenty-seven. I can’t-"

“Get off the bridge.”

“But B- the civilians- “

“ _ Get off the bridge.” _

He breathes. 

Somewhere, above him, a kid is crying.

_ Twenty-five seconds. _

_ Twenty-four. _

He lets go, turns, jumps, unclips his cape on the way down: in the water, it’ll be more likely to drown him than protect him. He thinks his hands are shaking. 

_ Sixteen. _

He goes into a dive, lets his momentum carry him deep into the murky river. 

There’s a splash. Dick could have done it better.

And it’s cold, it’s a terrible, shocking cold. Tim comes up for air, inhales sharply, treads water-

_ Ten seconds. _

He swims,  _ swims.  _ Pushes with the lazy current and pumps his legs. 

_ Five seconds. _

The farther he gets away, the better. 

_ Three. _

Someone’s saying something in his ear, but he can’t catch it.

_ Two. _

He comes up for a breath-

The shockwave of the explosion sends him careening out of control, even from here. He’s spiraling with the current, a mere pebble compared to the sheer amount of misplaced water, chunks of cement and metal crashing into the river below.

There’s high pitched ringing in his ear, there’s water  _ everywhere.  _ There is no light beneath the surface, no way of telling which way is up-

He thinks something hits him- debris. Something.

It’s very cold down here.

Someone, saying  _ something  _ in his ear. He can’t hear it. Can’t hear anything except that loud, echoing high pitched whine.

Tim spirals, spirals, the water deep and dark. 

_ You could drown here,  _ he thinks. There is no light.

And then he doesn’t think much of anything at all.


	20. all teeth and adrenaline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Injuries, Explosion Aftermath

Kon doesn’t think. 

He’s in his room, sleeping in. It’s the weekend. It’s quiet. There’s nothing to worry about.

And then - 

“Conner!? Conner, get down here-”

“Coming!”

And he _ambles_ down, walks casually down the stairs, not really paying attention-

Then he sees the TV.

Then he sees _Tim._

Tim, Red Robin, hanging from the underside of a bridge, the news lady talking about _bombs,_ about chaos in Gotham. Evacuations.

He hadn’t known.

_He hadn’t known._

Things move fast. So fast. One second Red Robin is pulling open the plate revealing the explosive’s interior, the next he’s diving into the river, coming up sputtering, swimming away.

And the next there’s a massive explosion of fire and falling concrete, the news copter swaying with the blast, the camera man yelling. In the distance, there’s another plume of smoke, another bridge falling apart.

Kon watches. Kon _watches._ The Bats don’t like it when metas intrude on their territory.

But Tim doesn’t come back up.

“Conner? Are you-”

He doesn’t think. He’s already gone, thick-framed glasses clattering down on the hardwood floor.

The flight to Gotham is a blur. His costume feels too tight. His _chest_ feels too tight. 

He flies anyway, paying it no mind. He knows where the bridge is, has walked it with Tim, has flown over it before--

The sirens and the screaming, kids crying, people shouting. There’s a massive hole in the bridge, the integral structure damaged and failing, everything falling apart. There’s smoke in Kon’s eyes and in his nose.

Someone points at him.

He pays it no mind.

He dives. 

Underwater is just as much as a mess as above, everything thrown up dirt and tossed around debris. There’s people here, he can see them.

Tim’s down here. He _can’t_ see him.

But there’s this responsibility in his chest. There’s this burning weight on his shoulders. Tim would never talk to him again if he disregarded civilians just to save him, especially if there’s a chance that Tim’s somehow already made it out.

This is so fucked up. There's bile in his mouth. This is _so fucked up-_

He grabs everyone in reach from the water, carries them to shore where an ambulance is already set up.

Dives back in.

And then he sees it, a flash of red, a shift of black hair. Tim’s awkwardly wedged under a piece of cement, which is all too easy to shove aside.

He can't hear a heartbeat.

Kon’s back in the air in moments. Sopping wet, feeling grimy from all of the pollution. Red Robin is a lifeless husk in his arms, he needs help, and Kon-

Kon hears his name.

“Superboy. _Superboy._ Over here, bring him over here-”

Batman, hand in the air, cape missing and sopping wet, too. He must have gone searching as well. He must have-

He’s calling him over. He needs to focus. There are lives out here, needing to be saved. There’s a life in his hands right now, and _he needs to be saved._

Kon comes over.

Bruce hardly waits a moment. Tugs Tim from his arms and checks his spine, checks for breathing, for a pulse. Starts compressions.

Kon watches, helpless.

And then Batman says, “Go. There are others in the river, and you’re more useful there than here.”

He knows the older man is right. He knows, he wants to protest anyways, but he _knows-_

He leaves just as Batman leans in to breathe.

The water's cold. It washes over his head and feels like a tomb.

* * *

Bruce is not panicking.

Bruce _is not panicking._

Batman is calm, in control. He goes through compressions, one after another, counts them heavily and calmly inside his head to the correct rhythm. He watches Red Robin for movement, checks for a heartbeat with every rotation. 

Tip the chin back. Clear the airway. Nose plugged. Lean in and breathe.

He does not panic. He does not yell or scream or cry. He does not beg. He works. He acts. Tears cannot save the desperate, actions do, and Batman wastes no time on Bruce’s anxieties, or his fears. There are voices clamoring in his ear, asking after Tim. Batman ignores them, too.

Check. Compressions. Breathe.

Repeat-

Except Tim, _beautiful, wonderful Tim,_ chokes, gasps, whites of his masks peaking open and then widening as he starts to bring up water. Bruce turns him on his side, rubs his back, brushes sopping wet hair out of his kid’s face.

They’re not out of the woods, but this is infinitely more promising than that silent, limp state his boy was in mere minutes ago. 

Red Robin coughs, spits, looks back at Bruce with blue lips and slow movements. He’s not shivering, he _should_ be shivering. Hypothermia? 

Better than the alternative.

Besides, the cold water might have saved his life.

Tim blinks at him blearily. There’s a sharp red gash at his hairline, curving over his ear. It’s bleeding sluggishly.

“B?”

Batman grunts. _Bruce_ insists he wipes hair out of Tim’s face again, internally comments on how it needs another cut, soon.

Batman… aquiences. The press of his gauntlets is smooth against his boy's forehead.

One thing at a time. 

He reassures the others of Tim’s current status, calls for the Batmobile, wraps Red Robin up in his cape because it’s better than nothing.

Tim is shifty, off balance, stumbles when Bruce helps him to his feet, unsteady when he helps him into the passenger seat, and slow when Batman orders him to take off the wet kevlar and bundle himself up with spare blankets and the cape.

Which is concerning. Could be lack of oxygen to the brain. But Tim wasn’t down there very long, thanks to Superboy, so it’s far more likely due to the concussion or hypothermia.

He’ll keep an eye on it.

For now, he blasts the heater, makes sure Dick and Barbera have it handled in the field. Every few seconds, he looks over to make sure there are no vocal cord spasms or any other respiratory struggles.

But Tim leans against the window, mask still on and otherwise a blanket burrito. The whites of the mask keep sliding to half mast and then jerking open again. He’s aware enough to know that sleeping is a bad idea, keeping himself awake.

Good.

Bruce can help.

“Did you have fun on your date?”

His son’s head slowly cranes towards him, like a particularly graceless calf emerging from a barn.

“...what?”

He keeps his eyes on the road.

“Your date. With Conner. Did you have fun?”

Tim’s face stares at him incredulously, and more than a little confused, as if he can’t quite comprehend the question. 

Bruce… isn’t good at this. At talking. But Alfred had encouraged it subtly and Dick had encouraged it _not_ so subtly, and Duke started up on a loud and pointed conversation about how the key to fostering good relationships is strong communication, especially between parents and teens who belong to the LGBTQIA+ community, _isn’t that right, Cass?_

Cass had nodded solemnly. Staring. Right. At. Bruce.

But of course, _Bruce knew that._ He had files. Research.

He just wasn’t _good at talking._

But here he is. Trying anyways. Being a Good Dad. 

Failing. Very badly. Because Tim is _still_ looking at him with a lost expression on his face.

However, just when he was about to give up on the matter entirely, Tim _responds._

“It was good? Fun. We saw a Mississippi Kite.”

He sounds rather out of it. Still, it's better than nothing. Bruce can _work_ with this. He, in fact, looked up all the bird species in the Metropolis area just in case this conversation miraculously came up.

“Aren’t those rare outside of mating season?” 

Tim _beams._

(Dick is going to be _so proud.)_

 _“_ Yes! I told Kon that, too! I have, uh, pictures? If you’d like to see.”

“I’d like that.”

Tim smiles again, dopily. _Definitely concussed._

“Yay.”

There, an entire conversation. All about personal non-vigilante themed things. Boom. Complete. Now, he has to have one with Cullen. Also Harper. And probably half the family, if he’s being honest. He knows Dick’s started seeing someone recently. Another someone. Two someones? Should probably look into that.

But _boom._ Whole conversation with Tim. 

Tim was concussed, yes, but still, it counted.

Good.

They arrived at the Batcave a few minutes later, Tim finally starting to shiver properly and Bruce continuing to keep a careful eye. Alfred helps him set the teen up on one of the medbay cots, hooking up the heart lung machine and checking Tim’s response time.

The readouts look okay. Batman should go, head out into the city, _help-_

But Tim is shivery, and clingy, and dazed. 

And so Bruce is conflicted.

Cullen, from where he’s managing comns, pipes up.

“Oracle wants me to tell you that if you leave Tim’s side right now, she _will_ send Helena after you, and she will do it with no regrets. Things are winding down enough that you should be okay for a couple of hours.”

It’s much easier to make his decision after that.

(Angry Helena is _not_ Good.)

Tim falls into fitful slumber, his body shutting down, trying to regulate his temperature. He looks like a burrito, wrapped up in every available blanket. He’s still shivering slightly, though not as bad as before.

Bruce relaxes, sets up the batcomputer, checks in with the active members of the family. Heads over to sit by Cullen, who looks exhausted, lips pursed, but otherwise fine. He helps redirect heroes to the places where the city needs it, gets the word out that Superboy needs to be informed about his boyfriend's condition, and checks in on Tim every few minutes, makes sure his lungs aren’t bothering him.

It’s okay. They’re all going to be okay. 

Except then Tim wakes _up,_ half in hysterics, breathing fast and with glazed eyes. Hypothermia, concussion- it blurs the thoughts, can make people over emotional-

Bruce is there in an instant.

“Tim, Tim, hey, kiddo, look at me-”

But his boy shakes his head, shakes his head, grasping for control even now, drowned but breathing still. Something lets out like a breathless whine, like a monotone report, all at once.

“Bruce,” he chokes out, _“Bruce,_ all those people, _all those people,_ I couldn’t save them, I should have- _I should have-”_

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, you’re okay-”

“It’s _not-”_

Angry now. Harsh. Something torn out of his kid’s throat and never in a million years should his boy feel this guilty-

“I knew something was wrong. _I knew it,_ and I didn’t say anything, and then the bridge exploded and I- _and I-”_

“Tim, Robin, _sweetheart_ . Look at me. _Look at me.”_

Tim’s watery blue eyes lock onto his own. Not a single tear falls, because Tim doesn't cry. He sulks, rages, withdraws. His eyes water and his hands shake, but tears are this rare, passing phenomenon that only happens once in a blue moon, when absolutely everything is falling apart and this boy's whole world is shattering with the remnants.

(Bruce has rescued infants from negligent households. They do not weep. They do not fuss. They are silent as the grave, because even as young as they are they know no one's going to answer their calls.)

(And Tim does not weep.)

He senses Cullen quietly sneak upstairs. Probably a good choice.

Bruce breathes.

Talking is so _hard._

“You did _everything_ you could. Because of you, most of the people had evacuated by the time the bomb went off. Because of you, lives were saved today. And I am _so proud_ of you.”

The teen is shaking like a leaf in his arms, fingers like claws around Bruce's wrists, breathing raspy with his poor, abused lungs. And Bruce isn’t good at words, he’s good at _action,_ and well-

He learned how to comfort people from Dick.

So he tugs his kid close, holds him tight to his chest, rubs soothing circles up and down Tim’s back, hums something he doesn’t even know the name of. 

And a few scant minutes later, the hysteria is over, Tim’s lax in his arms and breathing softly. The teen probably won’t even remember the miniature break down, come morning.

Bruce holds him tight anyway.

* * *

In and out, in and out. It’s a constant, monotonous, _terrible_ repetition. Kon dives in, grabs as many people as he reasonably can, and flies them back up to the paramedics. Some of them have heartbeats.

Some of them don’t.

He brings them up either way. 

He focuses his attention around one bridge and then another.

And then another.

And then _another._

There are four bridges leading in and out of Gotham City. All four of them got blown up. All four of them could have had so many more casualties if Red Robin hadn’t given the word to evacuate.

They’re calling him a hero. Kon just wants to make sure they can also call him _alive._ And the entire afternoon his thoughts spiral around it, worried as all hell and determined to do his duty even as he internally panics.

Finally, _finally,_ the sun starts to set and the search seems to have met its end. Kon’s dove back in three times and found nothing. The old highway has been temporarily fixed up to allow paramedics to drive back and forth from hospitals centered outside of the city. Things, impossibly, seem to be winding down.

And Kon blinks, blinks, exhausted, worried, and-

“Superboy! Superboy, over here!”

It’s Nightwing, whites of his mask narrowed in concern, covered in soot and sweat and what looks suspiciously like blood. He’s perched on top of the roof, waving, and so Conner wearily flies over to land next to him.

The man braces a supportive hand on Kon’s shoulder, almost like he’s trying to hold him up, which is ridiculous because he’s a _kryptonian-_

Except, he’s exhausted, and _starving._ It feels like he could sleep for a week. And he’s so worried he might physically collapse.

“I’ve been looking for you, hey-”

“Is Red Robin-?”

“Fine, he’s fine, woke up properly about ten minutes ago. Concussed as all hell, a bit hard of hearing in the left ear, and we’re monitoring his lungs, but otherwise okay. Asked for you, even. Are _you_ okay?”

And Kon- nods. Shakes his head. He feels depleted. Tired. There were a lot of people in the river.

Nightwing frowns at him, pulls him into a hug. Tight and brief and kind of sort of perfect, though he’s honestly not sure how. Must be a big brother thing. Or maybe just a Dick Grayson thing. Either way, Tim is very, very lucky.

_Tim-_

“C’mon,” says the older hero, somehow reading his thoughts, “let’s go visit him, and you can call your humans on the way. The Batmobile is just around the corner.”

And Kon nods, not even bothering to say he could fly there faster. Just follows Nightwing in his ungainly rooftop path, plops into the front passenger seat, and lets his head rest heavy. The world outside the tinted windows is filled with smog and left over gas, destroyed buildings and small fires. He sees Spoiler talking with a police officer, butterfly bandages on her cheek and bicep roughly wrapped with dirty bandages. She throws a salute as the car drives past, a jaunty, bleeding smile on her lips that’s all teeth and adrenaline. 

Kon, knowing she won’t be able to see, still waves back.

The entire ride, Dick keeps up a constant stream of chatter. If not with Kon, then with people over the comns. In the span of a few minutes, he hears Nightwing refer to Oracle, Batman, Blackbat, and then Robin, Blue Bird, and Red Hood: all in rapid succession. He orchestrates, and checks in, and makes sure no one’s too badly injured. He directs the flow of heroes to places he sees as they drive past, making note of possible potential hazards and areas that could probably be placed as a lower priority.

It’s fascinating to hear, this twenty something year old man organizes some of the most hard headed and diverse heroes around like it’s nothing, like it’s _easy._

(Tim talks sometimes, about Dick, about the year Bruce was gone and Dick became parental unit, Batman, and CEO of Wayne Industries all at once, continuing to patrol Bludhaven on the side. There’s usually something hard in his tone, but also something awed, and Kon couldn’t imagine it at the time but seeing Nightwing now, multitasking in eight different ways with apparent ease, he can believe it.)

And then they arrive at the Batcave, and Kon can only think about _Tim, get to Tim-_

Tim, who is wrapped in about a half dozen blankets, who blinks blearily up at him with red puffy eyes and smiles softly, raising a hand-

Kon can’t wait another second, runs over and wraps his arms around his boyfriend. He doesn’t want to ever let go ever again.

“I,” he says, “am _so glad_ you’re okay, you _utter bastard_.”

Tim laughs, curls into him. His fingers are cold but his nose is warm where it digs into his shoulder, and it’s a weird thing to notice but Kon will take it because it’s proof that Tim’s alive, alive and breathing and capable of warm noses, still.

His response comes a little delayed, a little crooked. Like the words don't quite fit on his tongue. There's something hiding under his eyes that's too dark and heavy, but Kon can deal with that later.

“I’m happy you’re okay, too, dork.”

“Jerk.”

“....Punk.”

_“Assho-”_

“I _do believe,_ sirs, that Master Tim would benefit from some rest.”

They break apart, Kon blushing, Tim not much better, and Alfred looking at the pair of them, bemused and ever so slightly exasperated. Somewhere, in the distance, he can hear Dick give a bark of laughter.

_Traitor._

“Sorry, Alfred.”

“Sorry, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“You are most forgiven. Now, Master Kent, perhaps it is best you return to the farm, for I have received no less than _six_ messages from Martha about your wellbeing.”

Right. That.

“On it,” he says, but he still leans in to give Tim a quick peck on the lips before he goes. “Hey, I love you, you know that?”

Tim smiles, crooked. Dopey. _Definitely concussed._

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too.”

“Also, I’ve officially caught up with you on the ‘saving your butt’ account, so make sure you mark that down.”

“Wait- you have- _shi-”_

_“Master Timothy!”_

Kon flees from the scene before the scolding can begin, but he’s sure his laughter echoes his entire way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluffy ending is an apology for the cliffhanger (◍•ᴗ•◍)


	21. spspspspspspspsp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Babs so much, but don't have a tone of practice writing her! Let me know if I did her justice. Also, let me know if I messed up anywhere when it comes to her chair <3
> 
> CHAPTER WARNING: Injuries

**_BRUCE WAYNE COMMITTED TO REBUILDING GOTHAM CITY BRIDGES_ **

**_A DEDICATION TO THOSE LOST: THE MAYOR’S SPEECH_ **

**_WAYNE ENTERPRISES DONATING SEVERAL MILLION TO DESTROYED HOSPITALS_ **

**_GCPD STILL INVESTIGATING BOMBINGS_ **

**_REBUILDING GOTHAM CITY: THE WHITE KNIGHT_ **

**_ALL HOSPITAL AND FUNERAL EXPENSES PAID BY WAYNE_ **

**_WAYNE GENEROSITY: NO END IN SIGHT_ **

**_REBUILDING GOTHAM’S DOWNTOWN_ **

**_WHERE IS RED ROBIN?_ **

* * *

_ no sighting of red robin in daaaaaays T.T _

_ I’m gonna cry. Someone start posting happy things because i am Too Sad right now _

_ WE HAVE WAITED LONGER THAN THIS BUTTERCUPS. HE’S FUCKING FINE I PROMISE YOU.  _

_ OP’s right anyone remember that one drought a couple years ago that went like??? three months??? RR’s probably fine _

_ i hate arkham breakouts i hate them so much like you think you’d get used to it but no every time it’s like a punch iN THE FACE _

_ Thoughts and Prayers to everyone who lost people during the attacks _

_ The rest of the bats seems to be around and in relatively good spirits so i seriously thing that we’re okay in the RR department _

_ do you ever want to just??? kick a stranger in the head??? i was walking down the street and heard some tourist complaining about the bats and i wanted to challenge him to Fight Me At Denny’s _

_ i know intellectually that Robin is a trained and experienced fighter who could probably break me by raising his eyebrow but like. my first reaction to seeing him is and always will be “He is…. Smol birb. Need slep. Must cooddle. give cookie” like the gremlin i am _

_ The world is so dark until I remember Bruce Wayne is a good person and feel a little better _

_ MAAAAAAANNNNN we are angsty bois today. why don’t you look at some pictures of some beautiful bi beans and maybe you’ll calm down _

_ people died dude. show some respect. _

_ Sometimes i’m so happy that i have back up Wayne Family to pull me through if we ever actually lose any of the bats. Like. oof. Just the idea is horrible but the reassurance we won’t be losing EVERYTHING is always good _

_ so many people are just gone. it’s so terrible. like. my heart. _

_ no new Tim and Conner pics in daaaaaays _

_ Stop treating them like they’re not human beeeiiiiingsss _

_ who has the picture of Tim Drake-Wayne sitting at the head of the table among a bunch of business men four times his age looking like a highschooler with bedhead  _

_ follow up request! who has the picture of Conner coming to pick him up and absolutely failing to be cognito even though it’s clear he’s trying SO HARD with the hat and sunglasses and stuff but he’s waving at people and sticking out like a sore fricken THUMB cause he doesn’t understand how Gotham fricken WORKS _

_ The one where he has like??? Ten thousand pins on his bag??  _ ~~_ And no of course I didn’t pay attention because he had like fifty pride pins whaaaaaat??? _ ~~

_ YES THAT’S THE ONE _

_ Here you go :3 _

_ i owe you my life _

_ One Does Not Simply WAVE in Gotham~~ _

_ *me seeing one of the bats* spspspspspspspsp _

_ *the bats* what the fuck? _

_ TO ALL YOU ASSHOLES WHO TALK ABOUT GOTHAM’S HEROES AND EXCLUDE THE GIRLS I SEE YOU AND I WILL DESTROY YOU AND YOUR SEXIST ASS _

_ wayne enterprises out here doin the lord’s work _

_ ATTENTION! Killer Croc sightings by the docs! Might want to clear out if you’re down there. _

_ sometimes i roll my eyes at the fact that people obsess over a bunch of peeps in skintight suits and sometimes i want to adopt a bat and name it Wingding and you know what??? that’s okay _

_ Dick Grayson is the best Wayne. If you disagree you can DIE BY MY SWORD _

_ [do you still have those infos on how many arkham rogues are still loose handy???] _

_ [yeeeee here you go bean] _

_ [tysm! uwu] _

_ [<3 <3 <3] _

_ BRUCE WAYNE JUST VOLUNTEERED TO REBUILD MY APARTMENT COMPLEX I’M SO HAPPY I MIGHT FINALLY BE ABLE TO PAY FUCKING RENT AND EAT AT THE SAME TIME _

_ Brucie continues to keep himself off the menu for when we finally eat the rich _

_ i hope Red Robin is doing okay wherever he is. Like i hope he finds an extra ten dollar bill in his pocket he didn’t realize he had left there, and his first sip of coffee is the perfect temperature, and someone compliments his outfit for the day. You know???? _

_ Some Bats on scene with Killer Croc! _

_ red robin?? _

_ Not that i can see sorry :/ _

_ :( _

* * *

Tim was officially off duty until they were 100% sure his concussion was fully healed. 

Was it a burden? Yes. Was Tim going a little stir crazy?  _ Yes.  _ Did Bruce explicitly state that Tim should go straight to bed and not even worry about doing anything vigilante-related for the rest of his unofficial grounding?

…. Better question: Were Bruce's executive orders going to stop him in any shape way or form in participating?  _ Hell no. _

Which is how Tim finds himself at Bab's place, a sheepish grin on his face along with his best set of puppy dog eyes.

She looks rather unimpressed upon opening the door.

"Those don't work on me."

Tim pouts. She continues to stare at him with her very particular brand of loving judgement and well-deserved superiority.

He should have known better: Barbara doesn't respond to adorableness. She responds to  _ logic. _

And so, tentatively, he makes his case.

"...it's better than me trying to sneak out to patrol on my own?"

She stares at him, probably deciding whether or not he's actually stupid enough to try and go about vigilante business so soon after getting blown up.

Tim stares back, almost offended.  _ Of course  _ he's stupid enough to run out on his own.

There must be something manic in his eyes, or maybe her natural intelligence catches up and she’s forced to recognize what a sheer dumbass Timothy Drake-Wayne truly is, because Barbara sighs and swings the door wide open, wheeling her way back to her screens. 

More realistically, Babs can see how just sitting there while the rest of the family is out there trying to catch the people who did this is driving him up the wall with guilt. He was spiralling up there, alone in his room, thoughts turning nastier and nastier circles in his head. There were so many people on that bridge who could have made it if he hadn't been so slow, if he hadn't been such an  _ idiot- _

But Tim's not thinking about that.

Bruce is going to be  _ so pissed.  _

Predictably, after a few hours of things going perfectly well, everything goes to shit.

Not  _ complete _ shit, of course. But enough shit to be unpleasant. Like… compost shit. There’s still the possibility of understanding how and why it might be useful to trudge through, but  _ goddamn  _ you do not want to get it on your hands.

Except that the vigilantes on duty are far past handling it. They’re  _ swimming  _ in it. It’s  _ everywhere _ . 

….this metaphor is getting away from him.

It connects slightly, however, because Killer Croc is still on the loose and, well,  _ sewers, but- _

But either way, Tim and Barbara have their hands full, sorting through information and directing heroes, trying to make things come together and not too pleased as it all falls apart. 

"Red Hood, you've got a boogie at your twelve o'clock. It looks like he's got kevlar piercing bullets, so I'd take him out-"

"Got it, chief!"

A tirade of gunfire, and then Jason cackling as he kicks the man on the upside of the head. Tim watches through the hacked warehouse cameras as the goon drops like a bag of stones.

Damian's voice cuts through Steph's congratulatory cheer.

"Oracle, Blue Bird has been bit. She's heading to your quarters now. Black Bat is escorting her."

The victory is a bit sour after that: a bite from Killer Croc is nothing to snort at. 

Oracle's lips thin.

"Affirmed."

And then she's shooting Tim look, her intentions clear, and he's scrambling to his feet and heading for the hefty med kit hiding in the bathroom, ignoring the black spots that want to creep up into his vision. It has enough disinfectant to cover the surface area of a rhino and Tim has the sneaking suspicion he's going to need it.

Croc's teeth are  _ nasty. _

By the time he's set everything up, Cass and Harper are making their way through the window. Harper is pale under her mask, right hand clasped over her left shoulder and her mouth pulled tight. Cass is supporting her pretty heavily, but when the blue-haired girl sees him she's still coherent enough to offer a shit eating grin.

"Greetings, nurse."

"Greetings, patient."

She wavers a little, and Black Bat deposits her on the couch. Tim hates the thing, but only because it was an  _ absolute nightmare _ to maneuver it all the way up to Bab's penthouse apartment.

The elevators had been too small for the thing. It had been a _ very _ long day.

Not that that  _ matters.  _ Not now, Harper gritting her teeth as Cass and Tim work in tandem to remove the top half of her costume. It  _ looks  _ like Croc had barely nabbed her, a sheer graze of teeth, but better treat it too much than too little.

There's a mischievous little light flashing in the younger girl's eyes, even as she's stripped down to her sports bra and the bottom part of her suit. In the background, Oracle is giving terse orders and filing through information like the champ she is. She's ignored for the sake of the wound in front of them, and Tim quickly begins preparing an injection of anesthetic. 

Harper shows her teeth.

"Ooooh, you got me the good stuff?"

She makes it sound like there's a drug deal going down.

But Cass' eyes crinkle, the way they do when she's holding back giggles, and she lifts pressure on the bloodied pad she's holding to the bite just long enough for Tim to inject the other girl. 

"I got you the good stuff."

" _ Yessss _ ."

Cass laughs- her soundless, graceless laugh- and Tim prepares needle and thread for sutures. 

Some hours later, the four of them are viciously battling it out for first in Mario Kart.

Well. 

Babs is beating them all by roughly an entire lap.

….It's a bitter duel for  _ second _ place.

It had been late enough once all the villains were in custody that Barbara had insisted the three teens just spend the night. Exhausted, they had agreed, even knowing that it meant getting all their butts thoroughly kicked in every video game known to mankind.

Finally, _finally,_ the older woman calls it the night. She ruffles Tim and Harper's hair and presses a kiss to Cass' forehead. If he remembers right, Cass stays over often enough that the guest room is practically entirely hers. In fact, Harper is borrowing a set of pajamas from the other girl, kept in the small bedside dresser.

Tim is… also borrowing Cass' pajamas. But this only further proves his point!

Another hour of video games, and the three of them settle down for a movie.  _ Heart and Souls:  _ Tim's never seen it, but it's got a young Robert Downey Jr. in it, and the trailer was funny enough, so he's more than willing to give it a shot. 

And then Harper says, "I'd beat him up for you, ya know."

Tim blinks, turns to her.

"...what?"

Harper keeps her eyes on the screen, bandaged shoulder tense. Tim wonders if the painkillers have kicked in yet.

"Conner. If he, like, hurts you or anything. I'd beat him up for you."

He feels almost touched, because he knows violence is how the other teen expresses affection, but at the same time…

"...he's a Kryptonian."

She shrugs, wincing as it jarrs her shoulder. Cass turns her curious gaze on them, eyes flashing in the dark.

"Bruce has plenty of kryptonite."

That gets a laugh out of Tim, and Harper has that same self satisfactory smile on her face. This is a young woman tough as nails and filled with fire, but her humour and love is slowly but surely coming to shine through.

"I don't think that'll be necessary, but thank you. What about you, Cass? You willing to defend my honour?"

The other girl puts her finger to her chin, putting up a mock 'thinking' face.

Then she grins, because she's a tiny gremlin, and says, "No. Defend  _ Kon _ ."

Tim gasps in horror.

"But Cass! I thought we  _ shared something _ . How  _ could you." _

The girl looks out into the middle distance.

"Decided. Me and him. Married at dawn."

Wailing in fake horror, Tim collapses against Harper's good shoulder and pretends to sob. The blue haired teen is too busy laughing to contribute to their melodramatics, and soon he and Cass are joining in on the cackling.

And then Barbara’s voice echoes back into the living room.

"C'mon, you guys, I'm trying to  _ sleep  _ here."

They respond in unison.

"Sorry, Babs!"

Then they look at each other and start laughing all over again.

The woman calls them little assholes.

(She says it with love, and they all know it. Calling out little cheerful gushy phrases about just  _ how much  _ she loves them is greatly amusing until she starts swearing vengeance, at which point they all scramble to the safety of the spare room.)

He's been feeling cold lately. As if Gotham harbour seeped into his veins and has stayed there, lurking and aching and all too present. The last couple of weeks had been hard, not only because of the concussion and the ringing in his ear, but because of the stupid withdrawal symptoms he’s been experiencing since going off his meds.

Which is… well, not optimal, even if it is what it is. He’s gotten away with it so far by blaming his fever and chills on his lovely dip in the Gotham river and his handy lack of spleen, but really he’s been feeling god awful. No one human should throw up as many times as Tim has in their lifetime.

And that’s only the physical stuff. Tim can’t make himself watch the news. He knows there’s going to be shots of the bridges and he knows he should be watching them, analyzing, figuring out who the hell could have done this, but-

He can’t breathe around the weight of it. He’s tried, but his own stupidity in the face of what was going on drags him down like an anchor. There were so many damn people and-

Tim breathes. Closes his eyes and presses his cheek hard against the pillow. Cass is curled against his back, warm and firm in the press of her spine. On his other side, Harper sleeps a few inches away, already knocked out, the meds  _ definitely  _ running full force through her system.

Through his closed eyelids, a flash of light registers, and a faint buzzing sound. It’s probably Kon, checking in again. Tim knows that he should respond, that they should meet up again because a brief conversation when Tim’s mentally impaired and Kon is emotionally exhausted and both of them are adrenaline fueled and so relieved just to be alive, and then a couple of quick passing conversations…. it really isn’t enough to deal with all that’s been going down. Tim should have arranged a proper meet up days ago.

But he also knows that Kon is weird, when Tim gets injured. He gets weird and too gentle and too soft and Tim  _ knows  _ his boyfriend is trying to be kind but all it makes him feel is fragile and frail and small.

Which is stupid. And if he talked about it, would probably stop. Another thing Tim should be doing.

Wayne Enterprise meetings he insisted he could still handle in the face of Bruce’s doubtful eyebrow raise, Red Robin investigations, being a better boyfriend, school work, personal projects,  _ something.  _ It’s all stuff Tim  _ should  _ be doing and keeps  _ not  _ doing, and all it does in turn is add to his guilty conscience.

The phone buzzes. Tim rolls over.

Cass’ dark eyes flash in the light, meeting his own and holding steady. 

He resists the urge to flinch, wondering how long she’s just been watching his back and analyzing every microexpression he made with every little tensing and shift. Wondering when she turned around at all, and how he hadn’t noticed.

His sister reaches out with a small, calloused hand. Her fingers are rough against his cheek, and infinitely gentle, and despite himself he feels his shoulders start to relax.

Cass can watch as much as she wants to. Cass is  _ safe. _

She smiles, a twitch of the lips, hardly visible in the dark. Tugs at his hair and he obediently scooches lower down onto the mattress so that she can reach his forehead, and can press a kiss across his brow.

Behind him, Harper sighs in her sleep. Cass’ eyes dance over his frame to take a peek at the injured girl for just a moment, searching for signs of pain or distress, and finding none.

Then she leans closer and speaks in a voice that is almost silent, even in the quiet of the room.

“You will be okay.”

And Tim-

It’s not as easy as all that. It never will be. Never  _ could  _ be. But there’s a lump in his throat and he swallows around it, nods slowly to show he’s heard her.

“Sleep,” she says, just as soft, and he nods again.

“Okay, Cass. Goodnight.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

There’s a coldness to his veins and a weight pressed heavy on his chest, but that night, when the three of them curl up in the one bed of the guestroom, and there's nothing but the sounds of night traffic and their quiet whispers, Tim tucks himself small under the covers finally starts to feel a little more warm.


	22. Ziggy? Wtf does that even mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy  
> No Chapter Warnings

“Drake.”

“Oh my  _ gods,  _ Damian, please, not again-”

_ “Drake-” _

“I’m shutting the door now. If you don’t move your feet, it  _ will  _ slam on your toes and it  _ will  _ hurt.”

* * *

“Demon. I can’t hear you- my music is too loud.”

_ “....Grayso….ubborn…..handsha…..incomp….ool…” _

“Can’t  _ heeaar  _ you!”

_ “Sto-!..tur~ng.. olume!…. up!” _

“What!? _ ” _

_ “....!” _

“ _ Sorry _ , Dami, you’re _ completely  _ drowned out! A pity, really. Outright  _ shame _ . I feel absolutely horrid.  _ Utterly dreadful.  _ Tears, just pouring down my face,  _ look _ at them go-”

* * *

“Please?”

“No.”

“....Drake. Reconsider.”

_ “Seriously?  _ No!”

“I’ll do your evening chores for you.”

“ _ Oooh _ … tempting, but still no.”

“DRAKE!”

* * *

“I  _ demand  _ that you tell me what that ridiculous secret hand code implies and how to do it-”

“Okay, fine.”

“...because I am a member of this- Truly?

_ “NO.” _

* * *

“What’s this?”

“Thomas has advised me that doing something kind oftentimes results in a favor in turn. So, I have made you breakfast.”

“You  _ really _ want to know what that handshake is, don’t you.”

“....Tt.”

* * *

Tim lays in bed and stares up at the ceiling, counting the shapes he can spot in the darkness, classifying them into categories and naming them in his own mind.

He’s the life of the party, really.

_ Really. _

He glances at the alarm clock on his bedside table- just bordering three in the morning. It hadn’t been a rough patrol, but it had felt good to be out and about again. He had  _ meant  _ to shower afterwards, to properly wash his hair and give a good scrub down, but it had felt like too much effort. 

He’s ignoring how that’s a bad sign. 

He’s got a handle on this. He  _ does. _

Still, though, it had felt good to go out. It felt good to be useful again.

And now he’s lying in bed, ready to pass out after a rather eventful evening. Except-

Except he can’t  _ sleep. _

...He thinks that it was possibly a bad decision to stop taking his meds all together. Maybe he should start up again?

Maybe.

He misses sleep.

But at least he’s not hollow.

He sighs, rolls over, curls around a pillow. Maybe, if he just closes his eyes and lays very still the entire night, his body will count it as resting and he won’t feel tired tomorrow.

(Not how REM cycles work, but Tim can dream.)

(...But not actually dream, because he can’t  _ sleep. That’s sort of the problem.) _

And that’s when he hears a knock on his window.

It’s hardly a tap, just a brush of knuckles on glass, but Tim rolls over and peers out into the night, catches sight of Kon’s large frame as he balances awkwardly on the window sill.

He blinks.

His boyfriend blinks back.

Scrambling out of bed- quietly, because he doesn’t want to wake anyone up, and that is a very easy thing to do in a manor full of vigilantes- he stumbles to his feet and swings the (bulletproof, because Bruce is paranoid) glass open wide.

“What are you  _ doing  _ here?”

Conner slips inside and settles on the ground before him, looking a little bit like a sad puppy. Tim has flashbacks to watching  _ Up.  _ He doesn’t like the implications that he is, in fact, Old man Carl.

Dick is definitely Russel, though. Tim would bet his fourth favourite mug on it.

A brush of fingers against his forehead, swiping back his greasy bangs, and he refocuses on the conversation, blinking.

“Sorry,” Kon whispers, “I just. Missed you, I guess. It’s stupid.”

“I mean- if it bothered you enough that you flew all the way here in the middle of the night, it’s probably not  _ that  _ stupid.”

Kon bites his lip. Tim sighs, rubs at his eyes. Somewhere, distantly, the manor clocks chime in rhythm. If he’s really listening for it, Tim can also hear the sound of Duke’s fan blasting.

“C’mon, ya big lug, under the covers: you may be immune to cold but  _ I’m  _ not and it’s  _ freezing. _ ”

And there,  _ there,  _ that little spill of laughter that shows Tim he’s on the right track. They tiptoe back across the room and slip under the duvet, and he’s still wide awake but it’s… calmer than before, with Kon by his side.

Except for the fact that his boyfriend is also  _ ice cold  _ to touch after flying a hundred miles an hour through the  _ ice cold winds  _ of the  _ ice cold Gotham City night. _

Did Tim mention the icy coldness? Because the Kryptonian’s entire body was infecting his nice warm bed with it.

“Kon,” he hisses, “your skin is  _ freezing. _ ”

But Conner just laughs softly, curling around him even  _ more,  _ running frigid fingers  _ purposely  _ up and down over the back of his neck. 

“Aww, but you love it. I know you do.”

“You’re evil, I hate you  _ so much right now-” _

Kon laughs harder, which makes  _ Tim  _ laugh, and then they’re both shushing each other as the old manor creaks.

And eventually, eventually they settle, curled around each other and breathing not quite in sync.

“Seriously,” Tim asks, once the silence stretches between them. “What’s up?”

And his boyfriend sighs, closes his eyes, inhales and exhales and lets it all go.

“Nothing. I guess I just- wanted to see you. Make sure everything’s okay. That  _ you’re _ okay. I feel like we’ve both been so busy and after the bombings… it’s a lot. I worry.”

Swallowing dry, the shorter teen traces patterns on his comforter with his eyes, trying to put his thoughts in order, trying to be reassuring and truthful all at once.

“I’m… okay. I guess.”

Conner frowns. 

_ Failed Step One. _

But then again, Tim’s not sure he  _ can  _ be comforting. Not with this. There were so many people on those bridges, and he had been  _ right there,  _ and he had still acted too late, there were still lives lost.

He should have been better. He’s not new at this, he knows how Gotham criminals _work._ He knew something was wrong and he should have taken the time to think, to analyze, to figure it out, to save everyone-

_ He should have been better. _

Tim breathes.

Kon hums, puts his arms around him and squeezes maybe just a bit too tight to be completely human. They’re pressed together as close as can be, and the shorter teen very carefully doesn’t mention how his ribs still just barely ache from compressions, because he’d rather the hollow pain than the feeling of being alone in this quiet moving dark.

He breathes. His boyfriend shifts, buries his head in his hair, shakes.

“You were out there saving lives and I was sleeping in.  _ Gods,  _ Tim, if Ma and Pa hadn’t been watching the news-”

“I would have been fine.”

Silence, silence.  _ You don’t know that _ is left unsaid, hanging heavy in the air between them.

Breathing, breathing- in and out and again and again. It’s almost funny how inconsequential it seems until someone stops, and then you’re all too aware of the inhales and exhales that mandate life.

“I love you,” Kon says, and it is hardly above a whisper. Like a secret, like a promise.

Neither one of them, after all, can vow that they’re both going to be okay. That they’re both going to make it out alive at the end of the next day, the next night, the next battle.

That’s not a commitment you can always keep in the heroing business.

“Yeah- yeah, I know. I love you, too.”

It doesn’t mean they can’t try.

And they can have this. These quiet shared words between them, and it’s enough, it has to be enough, it  _ will  _ be enough.

They breathe and breathe and breathe until eventually, finally, Tim feels Kon drift off to sleep. He closes his eyes, lets his brain wander….

* * *

“RISE AND SHINE, LOVEBIRDS!”

Tim jerks himself awake and is across the room in milliseconds, back to the wall and feet sliding into a fighting stance. He blinks, processing, and then relaxes into an all too familiar glare.

Jason, who has just thrown the curtains wide and is modeling the widest shit eating grin known to mankind, turns to coo over Kon, who is only just now lumbering himself up to a sitting position.

“ _ Jason,”  _ Tim hisses between gritted teeth,  _ “what the _ fuck _ do you think you’re doing?” _

Kon blinks blearily around.

His older brother smirks, leaning casually back, raising an eyebrow, and fiddling with his phone.

“Awwww, Timbo! I’m just doing my job! Being an active part of the family and all that junk.” The shit eating grin somehow, impossibly, gets  _ wider. _ “And, of course, gathering evidence.”

He raises his phone, which shows a picture of  _ him and his boyfriend sleeping,  _ which in turn obviously  _ cannot stand. _

“I,” says Tim calmly, “am going to kill you.”

Jason sprints out of the room, and Tim dashes after him with nothing but a pair of sleeping pants and a hell of a lot of determination to his name,

Kon, who is still on the bed and in the process of waking up, blinks once. Twice.

Looks around the empty room.

“...What just happened?”

* * *

Breakfast is… awkward. To say the least.

Tim glares at his sausages mutinously the entire time, ears flushed a bright red and pointedly ignoring Harper’s snickers and the way Cass is smiling impishly down at him. Duke and Cullen are tag teaming with matching raised eyebrows while Damian sports a disgusted scowl. His phone is blowing up from Stephanie's texts. Alfred is far,  _ far  _ too amused while he pours the morning coffee.

Bruce, who sits at the head of the table, is still staring.

And staring.

And  _ staring. _

The man has blinked possibly twice in the past three minutes.

It’s not natural.

Tim ignores the flush on his cheeks. Ignores his sibling’s teasing giggles. Ignores the way Bruce looks entirely baffled.

Superboy has long since fled Wayne Manor, citing farm chores with a panicked look in his eye as Bruce towered over him. The fact that the Kryptonian had enough strength to lift a plane meant nothing in the face of the goddamn Batman, leaving behind nothing but cutlery on glass plates and Harper’s poorly hidden laughter.

Kon probably didn't even realize Bruce wasn't angry. That Bruce's face is just  _ like that. _

Tim eats his breakfast and avoids that piercing gaze.

If the ground would swallow him up right about now, that would be  _ great. _

Bruce’s blank dead eyed stare is starting to morph into a frown, an actual look of processing slowly booting up on his expression, the slow dreaded realization of the fact he found a  _ boy  _ in  _ Tim’s bed  _ and that  _ they both didn’t have their shirts on,  _ and just what this  _ might mean. _

Jerking ever so slightly- in a manner that would be near impossible to note if not for the fact the man was at a table of fellow Bats- the patriarch of the household slams his full force concerned, _ horrified _ parental gaze upon Tim’s shoulders.

The only thing to really signify that terror is a few twitches of Bruce’s eyebrows. But it doesn’t matter. They all  _ know. _

Jason laughs out loud. His other siblings aren’t much better.

His family is the worst. The complete and utter worst. He should have emancipated when he had a chance.

It would probably be a bit too dramatic to slam his head against the table until he lost consciousness, but it is tempting. 

Very, very tempting.

Maybe Tim can just disown everyone instead. Go out- live in the woods. Become one with the trees and all that shit.

Yeah.

Alfred comes back in from the kitchen, polite British smirk still firmly in place, because he’s a dirty traitor.

“Shall I start clearing the dishes?”

Tim is already on his feet. If he can escape in the after meal chaos, then maybe he can avoid this whole situation all together-

But Bruce is too skilled, and far too aware of Tim’s escape techniques to fall for any of them now. Within moments the man has a firm grasp on his shoulder, gently leading him up and away to his study.

“Here, champ, I think we need to… talk.”

Tim sighs, resigns himself to his fate, and follows.

* * *

_ KON HE ACTUALLY DID IT _

_ what? he did what? _

_ The birds and the bees! The Talk! Bruce! _

_ wtf really?  _

_ Really _

_ The goddamn Batman gave me The Talk _

_ BATMAN gave ME the TALK _

_ you okay??? _

_ Yeah _

_ Sorry for freaking out _

_ Just _

_ It was very awkward _

_ And long _

_ VERY long _

_ Too long _

_ But he told me he loved me? that was nice i guess _

_ sooo??  _

_ I’ll live _

_ But only just _

_ haha okay _

_ ily  _

_ call me if you need to talk _

_ Yeah yeah _

_ Jerk _

_ gremlin  _

_ Nincompoop _

_ ziggy _

_ Ziggy? Wtf does that even mean? _

_ i…. don’t know _

_ i found it on some sort of random nickname website _

_ i was hoping youd just roll with it _

_ TRAITOR _

_ You’re a massive dork _

_ I hope you know that _

_ Just a complete dork _

_ nerd _

_ :) _

_ :) _


	23. Gay as in umbrella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Chapter Warnings

_ the idea of Tim and Conner snuggling on a couch somewhere watching movies together lives, just happy and enjoying each others company rent free in my mind _

_ *calling out to the crowd* THIS ONE! THIS ONE GETS IT! _

_ Me??? Draw Fanart of Timothy Drake Wayne and Conner Kent? Whaaaaa? Nooooooo I would never….. _

_ It’s so beautiful I’m gonna CRY just The way you captured ALL the emotions teh forehead kiss gave me My haaarrrrrrt _

_ bruce wayne he’s just? he’s so good okay? i crashed into him on the street and spilled like two tons of guacamole (period cravings-don’t get me started) on him and he was so nice about it? he asked for my pronouns?? he called me young man??? your fave could never _

_ Oh wow, a billionaire shows basic human decency and somehow he gets all the awards _

_ hello yes please exit the premises do not collect twenty do not pass go: WE WILL NOT BE TAKING ANY BRUCE WAYNE SLANDER HERE _

_ Bitches really just see Duke Thomas and reblog huh _

_ It’s me im bitches _

_ Did you see!?!?!?? The picture!??!?!? With the pink suit!?!?!?!?!?? _

_ YAAAAAASSSSSSSSS- It was so beautiful I was gonna cry! _

_ Hello yes here again with the unfriendly reminder to not sexualize minors or i will beat your ass _

_ Pink suit!! Pink suit pink suit pink suit!!! Pretty pretty pink suit! _

_ you’re laughing. there hasn’t been new timcon pictures in days and you’re laughing _

_ guys i met spolier i met spoiler i met spoiler i am still shaking but holy fuck i met s p o i l e r _

_ Are you okay?? I am a CONCERN _

_ i’m FINE there was an asshole who was following me around and i was HANDLING IT but then SPOILER was there and i didn’t have to- literally this is like, top ten moments in my lifE _

_ There are so many things clogging the TimCon tag like guys, GUYS, learn how to tag properly please i am begging you _

_ You know??? It’s been several months since this whole thing has gone public and I have still never felt as vindicated in my life as when Tim first confirmed he was, in fact, LGBTQ+ Like. suck it. The waynes are ALL GAY _

_ Tim~~~ is~~~~ b i s e x u a l~~~~ _

_ Gay as in umbrella term my good dude _

_ still forever bitter about Bludhaven stealing Nightwing away from us tbh _

_ My favourite Wayne Moment was when they were having a family interview and Bruce called like twelve different names before finally getting Harper’s and just looked so done _

_ i see your family interview and raise you the one time Dick, Duke, and Damian formed a “club” for having names starting with D and took over walmart _

_ what about the time we had cullen filming brucie trying to teach him how to drive?? _

_ Gods you heathens. Nothing will beat the Hamburger Incident and that’s that _

_ fair  _

_ Okay yeah fair enough _

_ SHIT i totally forgot about that one XD _

_ LADIES AND GENTS AND NONBINARY FRIENDS LOOK WHAT I FOUND IN MY LOCAL CHINESE PLACE _

_ Wait is that Conner Kent? _

_ Wait you live in METROPOLIS!?!? _

_ noooo i live in Smallville you dweeb (remember??? Kent was only born there) _

_ Ah okay I feel slightly less betrayed but also oh my gods it’s CONNER IT’S BEEN SO LONG SINCE WE HAD ANY PICS AH _

_ he looks so sad and lonely. Bean. wanna hug him. _

_ Where’s Timothy? Like? Hello? _

_ Oh my fuck what if Tim stood him up what if they broke up what if they’re no longer together _

_ well that escalated quickly, not that I’m surprised _

_ Did Tim ever show up OP? _

_ no! I may have stayed like. an extra twenty minutes or so waiting but no tim _

_ T.T nooooooo they can’t break up it would make me too sad _

_ Hey? Hello!?!? THESE ARE ACTUAL HUMAN BEINGS, not some shitty soap opera please treat them as such _

_ also just because Kent chooses to get some fucking noodles doesn’t mean they’ve broken up- stop jumping to conclusions _

_ Yeeee- contrary to popular belief, celebrities actually have lives outside of relationships _

_ Okay, but honestly? I really hope that this is a sign that they’ve broken up, or will be soon i’m so done with this shit _

_ WHAT _

_ Like? Tim could do so much better? I mean i guess Conner is kinda good looking but seriously? Tim is RICH. Tim is rich and intelligent and going places and could be with anyone and instead he’s with some hick from the middle of nowhere _

_ i don’t even know where to start with this. like this is pissing me off so much i’m gonna scream i am so so pissed _

_ Its just an opinion! Its not like it matters or anything _

_ IT MATTERS WHEN IT DIRECTLY HARMFUL TO PEOPLE! _

_ Actually I agree! Conner’s kinda a dumb jock, like, he’s got no personality at all. Tim deserves more than some guy who’s gonna drop out of highschool and take care of cows for the rest of his life _

_ that’s not fair-  _

_ It’s no wonder Tim doesn’t do too many interviews with him: the guy doesn’t know how to talk in front of a camera for two shits _

_ would you all do me the favour if Shutting The Fuck Up _

_ All I’m saying- and people are agreeing with me!- is Tim should get with someone better than Kent, and the sooner he realizes that the better off he’ll be _

_ OKAY, first of all, i just wanna say you’re spewing some classist shit right now. Like what it this?? The fucking 1800’s? Second of all, how fucking dare you. How fucking DARE you. These are two actual children who are engaging in a relationship with eachother, not your personal fucking dolls. And for a THIRD thing _

* * *

Kon turns off his laptop. He shuts it down and slides it under his bed.

It was a stupid idea, to scroll through social media like that when he was already feeling pretty crappy about everything. Usually, the stupid commentary is sweet at best or shrugged off with a baffled sort of amusement at worse, like water on wax: drips right off.

Right now, when he’s feeling cracked and a little paper thin, the comments aren’t rolling off his back like they usually do. Instead, they’re getting under his skin and making him feel stupid and fragile, which is ridiculous. He’s  _ literally  _ invulnerable. 

And yet, here he is.

Gods, emotions are so stupid. Who the fuck decided that people should have feelings? He hates them.

Rolling over in his bed, Conner reaches for his blanket and drags it over his head. He wants to punch something, wants to pick a fight and make it hurt, make a point, even if it’s just in his own mind.

Which, in turn, makes him feel even more shallow, because that’s  _ exactly  _ what some sort of dumb jock would do, making him exactly what the stupid faceless voices on the internet are labeling him.

He sighs. Rubs his cheek against the pillow case, tries to soothe himself with the way it smells like Ma’s laundry detergent, the way it smells like home.

This is stupid. Kon knows his own worth. He knows he’s smart, and that he’s good, and that what he and Tim have is really good, too. He knows the reason they avoid interviews is because his boyfriend hates the idea of people looking in, because his boyfriend likes to keep things private and quiet, likes to slip into the background whenever possible. He knows that some dumb troll on the internet means nothing when it comes to who he is, the good that he’s done.

(It’s almost hilarious, because a couple of years ago he probably wouldn’t have even cared that people were calling him an idiot, he just would have been happy that they were referring to him as a person at all.)

(Which, in retrospect, is really kinda pitiful, but it was what it was and it is what it is.)

The truth of the matter is, Kon  _ had  _ been stood up, sort of. He’d been halfway over to the hole in the wall restaurant and Tim had texted him, had asked to reschedule, had cited a migraine, and Kon had said of course.

It sucks that it’s been happening so often lately, but-

It’s not his boyfriend’s fault that his body rebels against him sometimes, that he’s human. It doesn’t stop Kon from feeling a bit mad at the world, though, and maybe a bit at Tim, even if he’d never say that out loud, even if it’s unfair and he’s working on changing that kind of thinking.

Tim or no Tim, he was hungry. And so he had walked the rest of the way, and he had sat and he had eaten, and he had felt sorry for himself for a good half hour and then left.

He’s still feeling a little sorry for himself, if he’s going to be honest. 

It’s not that he wants to be selfish. He knows that Tim is an incredibly busy person, that they’re both really busy, and that Tim is going through some stuff right now that he hasn’t been confiding in with Kon. He knows that his boyfriend is prickly and socially awkward and has a flare of temper he hides under quick sharp words and narrowed eyes.

He also knows that loving Tim means accepting that, means embracing it, because it means getting to see Tim pull off ridiculous shenanigans with their friends, getting to see him infodump on half a dozen things over the span of a few hours, getting to see Tim let himself be vulnerable, letting himself be happy and smiling and brilliant.

There are so many  _ good things  _ about being with Tim. And it’s not like they aren’t spending  _ any  _ time with each other, just last week he flew over and made a fort using his boyfriend’s mattress and a metric ton of pillows and blankets, justifying the mess by saying he’s making up for a missing childhood. 

(Tim had crawled in after with him, his hair greasy and his smile small. They had laid on the floor with only a spread out duvet for cushioning, had watched  _ Night at the Museum _ and traded whispers and spent an hour quiet and happy.)

But also-

_ Also- _

Kon is tired. Kon is tired and he misses his boyfriend, misses texting with him every day and sharing stupid memes and silly stories. Misses random adventures at three in the morning, just them and the sky. Misses being asked out instead of always, always doing the asking.

And he’s pretty sure that these kinds of things are supposed to go both ways. Relationships are supposed to be all about balance. 

There’s another thing. He wants to bring Tim home and show him off to his parents. Ma and Pa- they’re everything, in some ways. Kon was so angry and so lost and for so long it was just the Titans, just them against the world, and he wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything, but-

But Ma and Pa took him in. They took him into their home, into their lives, and they loved him and they took care of him. He’s always going to love his team, always going to love  _ Tim,  _ for treating him like he wasn’t a living weapon, for loving him until he believed it for himself. However, there’s something to be said in having actual adults who know a little bit about living, who are steady and present and not dealing with a shit load of their own problems. 

The Titans are family, but so are they. He’s tired of Tim dodging the subject whenever he brings up meeting them. 

Quiet, quiet. Jonathan is downstairs, on call with Clark, talking about another attempted escape attempt of Clucks Luthor. Martha is outside, tending the garden, humming something that was playing on the radio yesterday. Somewhere, in Gotham, Tim in bed, curled in himself, hopefully sleeping off a monster headache, hopefully feeling better come tomorrow.

It’s okay to ask things. It’s okay to be a person who needs things. It’s okay to not carry the weight of the world on his shoulders alone.

Kon thinks these things and tries to convince himself of their truth. He’s still learning, this, how to deal with a world he never asked to exist in, but he’s getting there. He thinks.

He licks his lips. Fists his hands and lets the tension go. Next time he’s with Tim, he decides, next time he’s with Tim he’s going to talk about this. He’s going to talk about his emotions and he’s going to explain how important it is to him that Tim meets his parental units, about how it hurts to have that ignored. 

Talking is good. For both of them.

He grabs his phone and starts texting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends
> 
> sorry for not posting last week. things went kinda topside and i was dealing with some stuff
> 
> hope you enjoyed the chapter <3


	24. running on coffee and sheer power of will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Depression and Anxiety, Relationship Issues

Tim doesn’t want to be doing this.

He’s exhausted. His brain is so fucking done with the world and it feels like there are tiny little forks pricking up and down his veins, a perfect storm of irritation and sleep deprivation.

But he also had to get out of the Manor. Dick was stopping by again, invading with good cheer and witty jokes, which is usually great. Tim loves hIs older brother so much it's almost scary at times. Damian is certainly less of a murderous gremlin, but…

  
But this is the third time in the past two weeks that Dick is just “stopping by” at the manor. The older man’s been giving perfectly valid reasons, explaining away his presence as extra help for a particular case, or a need to attend Cass’ dance recital, or even the fact that Alfred is serving leak and potato soup, a meal that is not to be missed.

Tim doesn’t buy it for one second.

Dick  _ knows  _ something is up. He probably hasn’t figured out that Tim has gone off his meds, but he can definitely tell that Tim isn’t feeling all that amazing, either. He keeps trying to set up these moments for open conversation, which obviously cannot stand.

(He also looks like a man running on coffee and sheer power of will, which Tim recognizes, because, well, _same._

So when Oracle had sent out the memo on leads on the bombing case, Tim had happily taken one of the potential sources. He needed an out. He needed to prove to himself that he was okay, that he could do this, that no one needed to worry about him.

And then Kon had texted him, asking if he wanted to go out on a date at a Metropolis cafe. It had given him a pause, because he had known that this was Kon trying, known that he hadn't been a very good boyfriend these last couple of weeks.

He’s been blowing Kon off. A lot. He’s been blowing everyone off a lot, in all the minor ways that really just require him to show up and be a part of someone else's life outside of work. He knows he’s doing it and he knows he should stop, that it’s not fair on other people and that he needs to be better but-

But people are just  _ so much,  _ all the time, and the idea of going out and socializing just seems like too much effort.

Or, when he does force himself out of his bed and into the outside world, he ends up sitting through whatever event it may be absolutely emotionally numb. 

Which-

Not a good sign. Not a good sign  _ at all. _ Tim is trying really hard to care and is not quite managing it. He’s not completely hollow, but feeling emotions is a little bit like breathing through styrofoam, crackly and far away. Like he’s got a bad connection over the phone. 

Kon had texted, and Tim had felt guilty, and so he had declined, but tentatively thrown a bone, asking if the other teen would be up to patrolling instead.

The answer was yes. Because of course it was.

Besides, Conner looks happy. This is a win-win situation. Tim gets out of the house and away from Dick’s super powered brothering techniques, and Kon gets some well-deserved attention. Hopefully, the lead was a good one and they'll catch the bastard that masterminded the deaths of so many people.

All’s well that ends well.

Right.

_ Right. _

Red Robin sits on a cold slab of cement and tries not to jitter. Tries not to feel guilty, even as the feeling vaguely curls up bitterly on his tongue. Besides him, Superboy swings his feet back and forth, heels clinking against the wall, over and over,  _ clink, clink, clink. _

Which is fine. Really. 

Tim clenches his jaw too tight and breathes through it. Resisting the urge to give up on it all and curl into a little ball on the rooftop until the sun comes up, he keeps his eyes focused on the entrance of the potential lead.

Why the hell is it always warehouse districts? He’s so tired of staring at warehouses during stakeouts.

(He’s so tired of everything.)

But there are people depending on this. All those families carrying so much grief, all those people desperate for closure. Bruce, spending too many hours in the cave, going over case notes. Oracle, who sent him out expecting a high level of work and deserves the best he can give.

Red Robin keeps plundering on, because people have expectations and even the hollowness clinging to his bones isn’t enough to drag him down. Not when it comes to this.

Even the idea of letting people down fills him with instant bouts of overwhelming, paralyzing anxiety. Say what you will about his parents, but they certainly made sure he knew his priorities.

(Hint: it most certainly isn't himself.)

So he sits. And he waits.

Besides him, Kon tips his head back, looks up at the murky sky of clouds. It’s not as bad as it would have been if they had been in central Gotham, but even in the outer limits the smog is practically omnipresent. 

_ Make and effort, _ he thinks, and presses his lips together, breathes through his nose a little too harshly.

“How have you been doing?”

Stilted, stilted words. But still, Tim’s trying. It has to count for something.

Kon gives him a cautious look, resettles his weight while floating mid-air.

“I’ve been okay… Actually, there’s something I want to talk with you about, while we’re up here.”

Keeping his eyes focused on where their target is supposed to appear, Red Robin hums non-committedly. His brain is pinging all the little signals he’s picking up on Kon’s body language out of the corner of his eye, the other teen shifting uncomfortably and squeezing his ankles briefly before letting go.

_ He’s going to break up with you,  _ is the first thing that pops up in his mind, which is ridiculous, because Kon would never break up with him while in costume, so he shoves it down, down, down.

“Look, Red, I want you to come meet my, uh, my humans.”

And Tim-

He tenses all over. Like some sort of pavlovian response to the very idea of parents. The fear clamps up in his veins and it takes everything in himself not to flinch. 

_ Shit,  _ he thinks,  _ shit. _

Outwardly, he tilts his head slightly towards his boyfriend and sets his mouth into a thin line.

“Is this really the appropriate place to be having this kind of conversation.”

It comes out too clipped. Pushes past his teeth like ice, carved out from something frozen hiding somewhere in his core.

Superboy shifts, settling himself on solid ground. His face is still trying to smile, even as his temper seems to flare, twitching eyebrows and curling fists.

“Every other time I try to bring this up,” he says, a little gently, a little hurt, an underlying tone of anger, “you change the subject. Or you tell me not now. Or you conveniently have to vanish. I figure that now is as good a time as any.”

Red Robin turns to face him fully, feeling stale and brittle. He’s too tired for this shit. It doesn’t help that they both know Conner’s speaking truth.

Still, though,  _ still.  _ Tim has his stubbornness, his coping mechanisms, and even when he knows the gig is up they keep bubbling back up to the surface, spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

Also, Tim really fucking hates feeling cornered. It probably wasn't intentional, but the sensation of having no escape routes is thrumming under his veins, right along with his pulse.

_ Be rational about this,  _ he thinks, and he feels so tired and he feels so done, and he says, quietly, “We’re in the middle of patrolling.”

Kon shakes his head.

“We’re in the middle of a stakeout. We have time to talk. And I think we really do need to talk."

There's the dull pressure of the pads of his gloves digging into his palms. If he was barehanded, he'd have probably pricked through the skin. As it was, there's just the vague, unsatisfactory press.

Superboy keeps talking.

"Look, Rob, this is important to me. This is  _ really _ important to me, and I think it's unfair that you keep ignoring it."

His eyes are so  _ earnest _ . They're so blue and big and hopeful, and Tim looks at them and feels small and cornered and cracked at all his edges.

_ Tell him you'll do it,  _ he thinks,  _ tell him you know it's important. Tell him, tell him, tell him- _

The words are sand in his mouth. This conversation is happening and there's no way out, his backs to the wall and there's no way, no way out, and-

_ Even better,  _ he thinks,  _ tell him you're really messed up right now and need some time. Talk to him. Talk to him, he's right there, talk to him. Pull yourself together for one fucking minute and talk. to. him. _

Are tongues supposed to feel this dry? He feels like he's swallowed half the Sahara Desert.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His teeth clink together with the force, ache in the aftermath. Red Robin is supposed to be immune to this sort of frozen, grimy terror.

And Kon's face falls, just like that.

"Nevermind," the super says, and it's more than a little bitter.

Tim wants to hug him, maybe. Tim wants to kiss him, maybe. He wants to apologize and agree to meet the Kents and function like an actual human being, anything to wipe that look from his boyfriend's face.

Instead he just sits there, like an idiot. Staring, face blank, a storm brewing in the crevices of his mind. 

And Kon sighs. It's too loud, even as Gotham City lives and breathes all around them, sirens and drunken laughter and shattering glass.

"Look, are you going to be okay if I let you finish this stakeout alone?"

_ No,  _ thinks Tim.

"Yes," says Red Robin.

It's rare that he can't read a face, but at that moment Superboy's features seem utterly foreign.

"I'm going to go home, then. I- I'm not going to lie: I'm kinda upset. Just. Think about it,okay?"

_ Say something. Say anything. _

But the words won't come, and so he just nods.

Kon looks disappointed. Tim feels disappointed in himself, too. 

Then his boyfriend kicks off the rooftop and vanishes into the smoggy night sky. The aftermath of the launch ruffles Tims hair.

Just like that, Kon is gone.

And Tim is alone.

He breathes in. He breathes out. He takes all the raging turmoil clustering up in his chest and packs it into boxes, buries them down, down, down.

_ Focus. _

An hour later, a figure of red and black appears in the warehouse, following a potential informant who had entered some minutes before.

There's a fight. It's Gotham. It's rare that there isn't.

To most anyone watching, the figure of red and black was nothing but a whirlwind of swift and terrible violence, silent and terrifying and focused.

To the few who knew him, they would have seen the falters, the jerkiness, the slow reaction times.

There were fifteen people in the warehouse. There was supposed to be one, two at most. At his feet lay six of them, unconscious. 

The rest of them had gotten away.

And if the figure of red and black, once the immediate danger was over and his available targets had vanished without a trace, covered his face with gloved hands and whispered quietly, shakily, "Shit.  _ Shit-" _

Well, then it was no one's business but his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha don't kill me :3


	25. Hugs are the Trojan's Horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for you patience this past month while this story went on hiatus. It's been a crazy few weeks, and I really just needed on finishing up the semester. Hopefully, the rest of this fic will be posted at a regular basis with no further interruptions.  
> Also, I don't foresee it happening, but this is just a gentle reminder that prodding authors for updates isn't super helpful in actually getting more fic out there <3  
> Enjoy!  
> No Chapter Warnings

Tim is moping.

He knows he’s moping. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter and moping like nobody’s business. Harper came in and saw him, gave him an exaggerated pat on the head, and had then speedwalked out. If she were a lesser woman, she would have probably ran.

Still, he knows that he’s emitting an aura of overdramatic mopiness when Harper  _ I’m-allergic-to-emotions  _ Row graces him with the Pat of Sympathy.

And he is. Being overdramatic. It’s not like Kon has broken up with him, or anything. They had an argument, and it was  _ bad,  _ and he feels like absolute garbage fire, but this isn’t an impossible situation destined to end unhappily.

At least, that’s what Dick had said, when Tim had called him at four in the morning after working himself up into a panic over Kon and their fight and the fact that he is a terrible, terrible boyfriend.

Which…. is embarrassing. To say the least.

Shit. 

_ Bleh. _

He should be better than this. Should be able to handle his emotions and his boyfriend troubles by himself. This isn’t- 

It’s not-

He fights  _ criminals-  _

_ Fuck why is this so hard? _

He groans into his arms. Presses the palms to his eyelids until the undersides seem to burst into static. Feeling vulnerable and fragile and needing a bit of help really shouldn’t feel like taking a bath with a cheese grater as a sponge. 

And yet, here he is.

Yippee.

But there are  _ some  _ good things to be had of it, he supposes. For one thing, Tim staved off a panic attack last night, a major accomplishment in and of itself. For another, Dick has pinned his weird behavior these past however many days on relationship issues instead of the handy dandy little fact that he’s stopped taking his antidepressants. 

Also, Tim had been given express permission to hunt down the melatonin and knock himself the fuck out, which is exactly what he did.

Melatonin is something he avoids, because it gives him  _ incredibly  _ vivid dreams, which is usually not-so-good when you are a vigilante. It also usually leaves him rather sluggish the next day, which he  _ also  _ does not do well with.

But it had been five in the morning, by the time Dick had finally talked him down and ordered him to raid the bathroom cabinets, and Tim hasn’t been sleeping, and emotional turmoil  _ (who knew?) _ can take a lot out of a guy.

He was weak. He took the melatonin.

Now it’s eleven in the morning, and Tim is moping in the kitchen.

“Do you have to mope in the kitchen?”

He pops his chin up to look at Duke, who is helping himself to breakfast across the island counter. His head is refusing to go any further than where it is leaning against his forearms, but even this is an achievement. 

“Yes.”

The other teen, for some baffling reason, doesn’t look entirely impressed. 

“Right in front of my lucky charms, Tim? Really?  _ Really?” _

_ “Yes.” _

Deep brown eyes scrunching at the corners. Tim looks at them and thinks they’d make a good picture, focused right in on the irises. It’s been a while since he’s done any photography. 

A mouthful of cereal, a swallow. There’s a space between them and Duke is shifting, pushing to fill it. 

“The audacity.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “I know. I’m a bastard, truly.”

A rough snort, and Duke keeps eating. He seems to realize that Tim isn’t super up to chatting, today, that his words are limited, and for that Tim can’t help but be grateful. Instead of talking, he watches as the spoon expertly digs around the marshmallow bits, saving them for one last massive mouthful. 

Jason’s voice echoes down the hall.

_ “Cass! Duke! If you assholes aren’t down here in the next thirty seconds, I’m leaving without you!” _

There will always be something satisfying about seeing someone try to cram too much food in their mouth at once when they’re in a hurry. The last of the lucky charms goes down the hatch with an awkward swallow, and then Duke is grabbing a small gym bag Tim hadn’t even noticed from the corner of the kitchen. He swings it over his shoulders and offers a nonchalant wave as he disappears around the corner. Somewhere else in the manor, there’s the sound of Cass sliding down the stairwell banister and laughing.

It takes a second to calibrate his sibling’s schedule in his mind, but then Tim makes the connection to the fact that it’s Thursday. That it’s  _ Jason,  _ doing the driving. That can only mean dance lessons. Duke and Cass do it together once a week, something contemporary, he thinks. They have a performance or a recital or something coming up soon.

Tim goes back to moping. It feels a bit better than before. 

Time slipslides past, he lets it go. His brain is too mushy for too much self hate, too mushy for thinking much of anything at all, and so he’s just sitting there and letting the world pass him by. The lack of stress is equally relaxing and incredibly weird.

Really, if he just dropped off, just took a little nap...

A hand on the back of his neck. 

He’s whipping around before he can even think about it, before he’s half awake. Fortunately, Dick is experienced with dealing with startled bats, and catches his hand before he can receive a broken nose.

Which is a good thing, because it would have made him look bloodied, bedraggled, waxed gremlin, as opposed to just an exhausted one .

Tim blinks up at his older brother. 

His older brother, apparently ignoring the fact that he looks like death warmed over, smiles and swipes a hand through Tim’s greasy hair.

“Greetings, sorry to startle you. How are we doing today, sunshine?”

“You look like shit.”

_ Ah. _

_ Oops. _

_ There was supposed to be a greeting in there, somewhere. _

But Dick just huffs out a laugh, pulls him into a hug. This is why Dick is is his favourite.

“Why thank you, Tim. You’re looking rather terrible yourself.”

_ “Hmn.” _

A jostle, and Dick slides lower, so he can get closer and speak quieter.

“But seriously, how are you feeling? Did you get some sleep? Get a chance to talk with Conner?”

Tim takes everything back. Dick is his  _ least favourite sibling.  _ Hugs are the Trojan's Horse and all they bring are genuine questions about his well-being.

_ Despicable. _

He groans. Answers, but only because avoiding interrogation will just get him more concern.

"Okay. Yes. Not yet."

There. Four whole words. Give the boy a prize.

Or however that saying goes.

He swallows. Manages to get out a few more.

"Are you, uh, okay?"

Another tight squeeze.

"I'm good, kiddo. Nothing you need to worry about."

Tim's shoulders hunch.

"I can-"

Dick runs warm. Always has, for as long as Tim can remember. When he hugs you it feels like wrapping up in your favourite comforter. No matter how many cuddles Tim’s received since joining the Wayne family, they always manage to leave him fumbling for words.

Now is no exception. He gets tucked closer to Dick’s chest and all the indignation just flushes out of him.

"I know you're capable. It's just not your job, yeah?"

Dick also had weird conceptions as to the stuff the younger side of the family is and is not allowed to handle. Gruesome murders are okay but everyday stressors impacting his life is a no-go.

Tim knows for a fact that the older man has been on Bruce's ass about it, too. 

Personally, Tim thinks Dick read too many parenting books when he took in a traumatized assassin baby.

Speak of the devil…

Damian appears. He has a pair of shorts on, and a baseball cap that was  _ definitely  _ stolen from Cass' wardrobe. There's a water bottle sticking out of his backpack, clinking against the collection of keychains hanging from the zipper.

Tim in no shape, way, or form finds this adorable.

Nope.

"Grayson," says the brat, and gives him a look that suggests he's seriously considering poisoning Tim's coffee. Again. This helps with the "Damian is not a normal cute little kid" thing. So does the eight knives Tim can count on his person.

He remembers, suddenly, that this is the thing. Dick and Bruce's pseudo joint custody thing. Dick and Damian will go out and do some activity or whatever- probably some sort of animal sanctuary, or something- and then they'll come back to pick up the younger boy's stuff and head over to Bludahaven. 

Which means, in turn, that Tim is going to have four wonderful days entirely Demon Brat free.

_ Nice. _

Even as exhausted and blank as he feels now, Tim can appreciate this. He quirks his eyebrow up at the kid and watches as he does an impatient shuffle across the room. There’s a growing scowl across that little face, mouth opening for another prompting except-

"One second, Dami."

Dick didn’t even turn around. He just  _ knew.  _ Sometimes Tim seriously doubts Duke is actually the only meta in the family.

_ "Tt." _

The older man continues to stare into his soul for a few more moments. Tim manages to keep attention for some five seconds before he zones out, reminiscing on the fact that all three of Bruce's kids starting with the letter 'D' have shown up in the row.

The next thing he knows, he’s getting another hug, a kiss to his forehead, and a reminder to call if he happens to  _ need anything, really, Tim, I'm just a text away. _

And then they're gone. He catches a snippet of conversation on the way to the garage, Damian starting to chatter about his most recent art project, all clipped vowels and ridiculously long words. The boy still sounds younger talking with Dick than he does with most anyone else.

It makes him smile despite himself. Luckily, no one else is there to see.

And there is no one else. For a while. Tim appreciates the stillness to it, the quiet. It's rare that the manor is like this, without all the hustle and bustle and people bursting in and out. It's rare that the manor feels like the Drake mansion.

Or, at least, the good parts of it.

(Part of him will always wonder if he's an introvert by design or by necessity.)

In the end, however, this isn't his childhood home. Never really could be. When the silence shatters upon Stephanie slamming the front door open and yelling out his name, he is absolutely not surprised.

He doesn't feel like yelling back. Instead he just sort of… sits there. And waits for her to find him. Counts down in his head.

She knows him too well. Knows how he mopes. It’s no surprise when a warm body is suddenly pressing against his back, chin digging uncomfortably into his shoulder, only a couple of minutes later.

“Where’s my invitation?”

_ Wait, what? _

“Uh, what?”

“To your pity party, bird brain. I didn’t get my invitation.”

_ Oh. _

He shrugs, leans a bit sideways and resettles as Stephanie plops down besides him on the next stool over. She’s smirking, just a little bit. Probably ridiculously amused over her little pun, because Steph always thinks she’s the funniest person in the room.

To be fair, though, she’s almost always right.

Especially when Tim’s the only other contender.

So instead of trying to outwit her, he just shrugs. Slumps properly back onto the counter, the marble cool against his forehead. Tilts back a bit to glance up at her, knowing she’d appreciate the effort, if nothing else.

“What are you doing here?”

A happy hum, and she kicks her feet, thumping softly across the counter base. 

“Dick called me. Said you were, and I quote, ‘two steps away from becoming a zombie,’ and that you could do with some care and affection from your favourite badass queen of the universe.” 

“Uhuh.”

Every time Tim feels like he’s reached his quota on deadpan, he suddenly finds new limits to his exasperation. A miracle, truly. 

“I  _ may  _ have embellished. A little. But it was implied.”

“U _ huh.” _

“Oh, shh, you.”

And thus begins two hours of relaxed chaos. 

It’s not like they’re doing anything crazy, or anything. It’s really just them and the big, empty manor to themselves. Tim isn’t up for anything super active, or anything that involves his brain power at all, and his social battery is incredibly low. Luckily, it’s Steph. Steph doesn’t require him to be engaged 100% all the time. Steph doesn’t even really use up his battery all that much. Steph is one of those people he can exist around, and be okay with it.

He’d never ask for her to take time out of her day and hang out with him like this, when he’s essentially little more than a couch slug, but he appreciates when she comes around nonetheless. Appreciates he doesn’t repulse her, or whatever.

Whatever.

They watch Frozen, improvising voices for the characters with the sound muted. Or, she improvises voices, and Tim snorts into his hoodie and occasionally chimes in. It’s the kind of stupid fun he’s been missing since he’s started shutting down, and it’s nice.

He hasn’t forgotten his fight with Kon. He hasn’t forgotten his exhaustion or his guilt or his anxiety. But this girl has already gone through this rodeo once, and knows how to ride the rougher waves. Stephanie is leaning against his legs, scrunching her nose at her phone as she types at a lightning fast pace- probably finishing up another essay- and, and well-

It’s nice. He’ll leave it at that. 

They sit in silence for a while. A comfortable sort of silence that makes him wish Conner was here, enjoying it with them. His boyfriend would be scrolling through stupid memes on his phone, occasionally picking out the very best ones to show Tim, and then they’d both laugh whole Stephanie made faces at them, and things would be good.

_ You have to apologize first,  _ he thinks, and runs his teeth over his tongue.

Before he can put any more thought into it, however, there’s the sound of the lower garage door happening, and Bruce’s voice echoing through the mansion.

_ “Come help with the groceries, please!” _

He and Steph trade looks, lumber up to their feet. They pass Alfred and Cullen on the way to the car, trading little greetings as they do. Cullen has his noise-cancelling headphones on, looking tired but calm. Stephanie jabs him in the side as they pass and he sticks his tongue back at her, making her laugh. 

There is approximately a small mountain of groceries in the trunk of the car. Stephanie looks over it with an appraising eye.

“We can manage this in one load, right?”

Tim blinks. There is absolutely nothing to lose.

“Sure,” he says, and it uses up one of the words. But Steph beams, challenge in her eyes, and it makes it worth it.

And so the crazed loading up of bags begins. They’re both slinging them over their shoulders and hiking them up their arms. Stephanie solemnly orders a couple of them to be hung around her neck like incredibly clunky, oversized necklaces. Tim follows these orders, because this has become a quest and neither one of them are quitters.

Slytherins. The both of them.

By the time they’ve both grabbed as many bags as humanly possible, unloading the entirety of the van, Cullen has returned. He’s watching them with amused eyes and making absolutely no move to be of any assistance. 

Cullen is a traitor. A dirty, dirty traitor.

They start their hobbling journey. A bag of beans topples out from the overstuffed bags, and Stephanie curses loud enough that Tim winces, thinking about Alfred’s vague disappointed frown.

Cullen rescues the fallen legumes. He is forgiven, but on thin ice.

They arrive at the kitchen. Bruce, from where he is helping Alfie unload bags that he brought in, hums in greeting. 

“I was about to come out and check on you gu-”

He sees Tim. He sees Stephanie. He sees how the pair of them are loaded up to the brim, and Cullen’s smirking face behind them.

“One trip?” he asks. He sounds exasperated and amused, all at once. 

The responding nods are solemn. 

“One trip.”

“Well, let’s put everything away, then.”

So they do. Alfred puts them all to shame when it comes to sheer speed, but everyone does their part. His younger brother disappears at some point, vanishing up to his room, but only after the majority of the groceries have found new homes amongst the cupboards, fridge, and pantry.

Then Bruce goes, “Oh, hey, Stephanie. I have something for you,” and proceeds to take out not one, not two, but _three_ massive boxes of eggo waffles. 

Watching them stack up, one on top of another, Steph makes eye contact with him and mouths, “ _ Oh my god.” _

Tim is prone to agree. There are easily over a hundred miniature frozen waffles packaged away, stacked right in front of them. Just.  _ So many. _

Oblivious, Bruce barrels on. 

“You mentioned that you wanted some eggos. I saw these at Costco.”

“Bruce,” Stephanie eventually gets out, “that was like, a month and a half ago. I was  _ high  _ on fucking  _ anesthesia.” _

The man nods, looking faintly pleased with himself. In Bruce, this translates to having slightly more relaxed posture. In a normal man, he’d probably be doing  _ Ta dah!  _ motions right about now.

Tim is suddenly incredibly aware that Batman is a giant doofus. Stephanie, coming to the same conclusion, is fighting the strange urge to cackle. Alfred, who had realized this truth the first time his ward decided dressing up in an armoured onesie sounded like a good idea, simply smiles.

“I- Uh, thanks, Bruce. I appreciate it. I’ll be sure to take it back to my apartment when I’m done here. Heh.”

Apparently satisfied, the older man turns back to the vegetables he’s watching. The towering stack of eggos blocks their view of his back. 

Tim pokes at one. He half expects it to not be real.

Behind him, Stephanie chortles. Both of them vanish out into the hall.

“I am going to be eating eggos for  _ weeks.” _

“Eggo queen.”

She snorts, and he laughs, and it feels.... not perfect, by any means, but lighter. A little more manageable.

It feels good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured we could use fluff after the heavy angst last chapter.
> 
> Fun fact, I have never had eggos before :)


	26. clown (derogatory)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notice how it's now 35 chapters instead of 30??? NOTICE THAT!?!?!?
> 
> this is what you all do to me. punks.
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Relationship Issues

_gotham be like: clown (derogatory)_

_Okay but real question, when is calling anyone a clown NOT derogatory_

_i...did not...think this through….heh_

_Me? Obsessed with TimCon? No not at all hahahahaha *quietly slides my phone with its literal HUNDREDS of pictures and opened RPF fanfic under my matress*_

_I FOUND A BRUCE WAYNE IN THE COSTCO_

_costcowayne.jpg_

_Oh mu gods oh my gods this is all i have ever wanted in life_

_Is that a wild Cullen I see??_

_YES! He just sort of trailed after Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth the whole time with his headphones on. It was kinda like watching a lost puppy dog. Very cute_

_im sorry am i hallucinating or are there three boxes of eggos in the cart_

_YES XD_

_Alfred looks like he’s planning murder and honestly I support him. Eggos are disgusting_

_takeeee that baaackkkk you heathen_

_Neverrrrrr_

_THE. WAYNES. ARE. ALL. GAY._

_YOU. HAVE. NO. PROOF._

_did god make cass so beautiful just for the explicit purpose of making me cry?_

_I would DIE for Connor Kent_

_conn_ **_O_ ** _r kent?? who’s that_

_*whispers* I’ll kill you_

_Dick Grayson is the best wayne. Change my mind_

_Someone Please Hold Me The Same Way Damian Holds Alfred The Cat_

_hey, hey, psst, come closer_

_*creeps closer* *whispers* What?”_

_Tim Drake is fucking bisexual and if people keep calling him gay i’ll literally break someone’s knee caps ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ♡_

_We feeling a little bit violent in fandom today huh friends_

_I DID IT I’M DONE THE LATEST CHAPTER OF MY FIC IS UP AND NOW I’M SLEEPING FOR A THOUSAND YEARS_

_did we ever figure out Conner’s sexual orientation???_

_No <3 because <3 it’s none of our <3 fucking <3 business <3 _

_jeeeez i was just asking_

_Choke <3 _

_occasionally i just get punched in the face by the fact that Brucie is, in fact, jewish_

_Peeps! Look! I found a vid of duke doing parkour before he joined the waynes T.T_

_dukeeeeee.MP4Vid_

_oh my godddssss look at him! he is so smol_

_Baby. baby boi._

_Has Tim Drake received a hug today??? please get back to me immediately because it is filling me with anxiety_

_i never believed the idea that the waynes could genuinely be like, really good and down to earth people, and then i actually met bruce and i swear my brain did a 380_

_HUN SAME. Mine was with Superman and Superboy. Like, literally, Superman cracked so many dad jokes and Superboy was literally groaning in teenage dramatics and it made my day_

_SUPERBOY!! I SAW HIM TOSAY!! HE STOPPED A COUPLE OF ROBBERRIES AND THEN STAYED AFTER TO CHAT WITH PEOPLE_

_Oh i am jealoussss_

_YEE! He didn’t stay long, but it was cool to talk with him!!_

* * *

Lois is in the kitchen, humming, the quiet clatter of her rummaging around the cupboards for a chopping board providing background music. Kon feels a bit like a criminal, cooped up in the bathroom, listening in, even though he had been invited inside, even though Lois knew that he was there.

She was probably wondering where he was, actually. He'd headed over to the restroom some five minutes ago under the pretense of washing his hands so he could help with dinner prep.

It does not take five minutes to wash your hands. _Especially_ when you have super speed.

But here Conner is, five minutes later, sitting on the closed toilet seat and holding his phone in the palms of his hands. It’s so tempting to open it up and call Tim and apologize and say it doesn’t matter. It’s so, so tempting.

Except there’s the tricky little fact that it _does_ matter and Kon _is_ actually pretty pissed about the whole thing, and he has an inkling that any attempted communication right now is just going to end up with _both_ of them yelling at each other in a way they haven’t since they were a couple of years younger and a whole lot angrier at the world.

And Kon would actually rather _not_ yell at his boyfriend, thank you very much. 

Even though he’s angry. Even though it might actually be a little bit cathartic. Even though there’s maybe a little part of him that actually _does_ want to because he is, apparently, a bit of an asshole.

Not that that’s news or anything. 

Groaning, Kon knocks his forehead against his knees and breathes in for just a second. He hates this. He hates this so much.

Another minute passes. If he doesn’t get out of here soon, Lois is going to come and check on him, which would just be… embarrassing. Kon doesn’t need his quasi-brother, gene donor's wife to be worried about him.

Not that Lois isn’t great. It’s just that Kon respects her the way one might respect a particularly massive volcanic eruption: a force of nature that shouldn’t be trifled with, beautiful and awe-inspiring and more than a little terrifying. 

So he stands up and goes to wash his hands.

Or, at least, he _tries_ to, only for the faucet handle to immediately warp under his grip the moment he grabs it, as if he’s just come out of the lab and readjusting to his powers all over again, his emotions wild and lost and confused and full of rage.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks.

Then, out loud-

“Fuck.”

He had thought he had left this all behind him. He had thought that he was better than this, that he’d grown past this. And yet here he is, breaking shit again just because he’s a little upset, and _shit, shit, shit,_ this is Clark’s _apartment_ and the man is going to be so-

Kon lets go of the handle before he can make it any worse, nudges his way out of the bathroom with overly cautious fingers, and speedwalks out of there. There are emotions rolling in the pit of his chest like spoiled milk, and Kon runs his tongue along the crevices of his teeth and tries to calm down.

Maybe he should just fly out. Find some abandoned coastal shelf somewhere and beat stuff up until he feels like he’s got a better grasp on his trembling sense of control.

“Conner, you there? Ready to help?”

Lois, right.

_Right._

Kitchen it is. Tucking his hands under his armpits where they can;t hurt anything, Kon picks his way through the apartment into the kitchen and pokes his head inside. When she sees him, Lois offers a small smirk.

“Was beginning to think you somehow got lost.”

“Uh, I kinda broke the sink,” he says in lieu of a response, and Lois freezes, turning to look at him. Her gaze is all sharp lines, and despite the fact he’s the invincible one, he finds himself shrinking.

The moment passes, and she returns to chopping vegetables, her knife slicing through tomatoes at an even pace. Kon could probably do it faster and have more uniform results, but he doesn’t trust himself not to break the cutting board in half, and so he doesn’t offer.

_Chop, chop chop-_

“It’s not a problem, kid. Clark breaks things on accident when he’s upset, too.”

“I’m not upset,” Kon says, sounding upset. 

_Oops._

He winces, shoulders hunching slightly. He half-expects Lois to start questioning him or berating him, all sharp wit and sharper tongue. At the very least, he expects her to raise an eyebrow at him.

But she doesn’t. Just keeps dicing away, one slice at a time. The silence hangs heavy between them and Kon wishes he had something to do with his hands. He wishes he had never agreed to come over in the first place.

“Me and Tim had a fight.”

The words blurt out before he can stop them, and he immediately flushes bright red. _Stupid,_ he thinks, _stupid,_ and if a supervillain could start attacking the city right about now that would be _great._

If only he could be so lucky. Instead, he’s stuck inside a kitchen that’s a bit messy, cluttered counter surfaces and small mementos scattered everywhere. Kon knows- he _knows-_ that a lot of this stuff is all the tiny gifts Superman is gifted on a daily basis, kept and cherished for a week or so before they’re moved to the fortress of solitude for storage and safekeeping. 

(Clark is too much of an ol’ softie to throw anything away, even the utterly abstract crayon drawings given to him by little toddlers.)

The stuff is distracting. He focuses on that instead of the silence, fiddling with a little plushie of Krypto. It’s memory foam, and he reflexively squeezes and releases the soft material over and over again.

 _Chop, chop, chop,_ goes Lois’ knife on the cutting board. Conner grinds his teeth. 

Finally, the woman sighs, turning on him with her arms crossed over her chest. The knife is still in the grip of her palm, but only absentmindedly instead of with malintent, blade pointed down. 

“I’ll bite. What were you fighting about?”

And Kon-

What _are_ they fighting about? Tim isn’t working with him, keeps _refusing_ to meet the Kents, yes. And Kon’s upset about all that, he _is,_ but also he has no idea why his boyfriend is being such an asshole.

Which leaves him room to think about different reasons. Most of which are bad and make him feel too big for his skin. 

Which, to put it simply, sucks. 

...maybe he knows more about what they’re fighting about than he thinks.

But it’s also more complicated than that. _Tim_ is more complicated, and has all these little hangups and insecurities and incredibly valid fears from years of being a part of the hero business. Kon knew this, going in, when he committed himself to a relationship with the guy. Had learned it first as Tim’s friend, through trial and error and a hell of a lot of patience on _both_ their parts, because Kon had his own issues to deal with and both of them had been rather volatile when they first met.

Just a few short months ago, Tim was literally holding his hand through his and Clark’s slow, awkward, and high-tension reintegration with one another. His boyfriend had handled the whole thing with a hell of a lot of grace, even when Kon was unfairly blowing up and shutting down in parts the whole time.

Now, he’s standing in Superman’s kitchen, invited inside on a whim to help cook dinner. 

_Yeah,_ he thinks bitterly, _but Tim knew why I was behaving the way I did, and I have no idea what’s going on in his head._

He feels like his thoughts are going in circles, angry and reasonable and angry again.

Lois is still waiting on him, her clear-cut gaze focused on his own. Kon swallows.

Right.

It’s hard to forget that this woman is an investigative journalist, but occasionally there are moments when it becomes utterly impossible to ignore.

“I- Er, would it be too cliche if I say it’s complicated?”

She snorts, turns back to the counter and grabs a second chopping board and knife. He takes her up on her silent offer, creeping closer and taking one of the onions.

He doesn’t start cutting it up, instead just sort of… holding it.

“Look, Conner,” Lois says in her blunt way, “I’m not known for my level of tact. I do my best, but I’m just who I am. Clark gets that, and he lives with it. Relationships are about being happy and compromising and all that, but they’re also about recognizing the stuff you really just can’t live with.”

Kon very purposely doesn’t squeeze the onion to bursting, distracting himself by picking at the skin. He can feel her eyes on him, watching his response.

She nudges his elbow with hers.

“If you both just need a break to sort your own heads, that’s fine, too. Fights happen, and you figure out what went wrong and move past it, or you don’t and you go your separate ways. You’re both young. You’ve got the time to figure it out.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

Lois snorts.

“I hardly understand what I’m saying, but if you get something out of it, all the more power to you. Now,” she picks her knife back up with a small smile, “help me chop some fucking vegtables.”

Kon breathes, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose, and carefully goes to follow her.

“Yeah-” he says, laughing just a little- “yeah, okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kept misspelling LOIS as LOUIS even though i tried SO HARD to keep things spelled correctly AAAAHHHHH
> 
> Speaking of, this is my first time really writing her??? hope i did okay. Based her off an old math teacher in highschool that I adored


	27. drift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Anxiety, Depression, Panic Attacks, Relationship Issues

Tim would just like to put it on record that he  _ hates _ fear gas. 

There had been an encounter with Scarecrow two days ago, brief and violent and ending in an explosion of chemicals. Stephanie and Duke had caught the worst of it, but Tim had gotten a good lungful himself, and even with the antidote his body has been putting itself through the ringer with a low grade anxiety attack over the past week.

He's been irritable and snappish for days, a consistent headache pressing against his eyeballs and jumping at his own shadow. His jaw aches from grinding it so much, and every once in a while his heart will decide it'll be a  _ great _ time to do a tango and speed up to ridiculous degrees. 

The whole thing is stupid. The antidote is supposed to get _ rid  _ of these lingering effects.

...except Tim’s antidote has been made with Tim’s antidepressants in mind, which he is no longer taking.

Shit. 

Tim wants to call Kon and distract himself. But the fact that they’re fighting makes it impossible. Which makes Tim want to call Kon and apologize, except this _fucking_ _fear gas residue_ is making that practically impossible and so his boyfriend is never going to forgive him because Tim-

_ Breathe _ .

The current situation really isn't helping anything. 

It's just a business venture. Just Bruce, signing some documents to agree on a merger, and he, Tim, and Damian will be out of there. 

But there are more people than Tim had thought there would be. And a few of them keep sending Tim  _ looks.  _ And Damian is standing mulishly besides him, idly clicking a pen open and closed as Bruce gives his classic rich white socialite laugh, and the sounds of chatter and glasses clinking are  _ getting on his nerves _ and-

_ Be rational about this,  _ Tim thinks, and tries not to snap at the kid besides him to  _ stop it,  _ because he knows it will only encourage Damian to click  _ more. _

He feels dizzy. There is a tight clench of nerves at the base of his neck and they're buzzing, vibrating like some sort of danger detection center, except that  _ there's nothing wrong,  _ and Tim just needs to  _ calm the hell down. _

Far easier said than done. 

Tim breathes, fidgets with the cuffs of his jacket. Then he stops and stands ramrod straight, shoving his hands into his pockets because literally the worst thing he could do right now is draw attention to himself by acting unprofessional.

He wishes he had his thinking putty. Bart had gotten him some for his birthday, a tiny little case that fits in practically everything. They had been in a shopping mall, waiting for Cassie to pick out a book, and Tim hadn't spent even half a minute looking at the different kinds before moving on, but apparently it was enough to convince Bart he wanted it.

It looks like a tiny galaxy, when he curls it up in his palm.

His hands are fiddling with his cuffs again within minutes.

It's so  _ stupid,  _ because somebody shifts halfway across the room and Tim has to resist the urge to startle into a fighting stance. Damian keeps shooting him these disgruntled looks that might be heavily disguised concern, but Tim ignores them and stares at the wall, back straight and jaw clenched.

_ C'mon Bruce, hurry up. _

….he might take Dick up on yoga later, at this rate. He's so tensed all over his shoulders are starting to physically ache.

What he spots next  _ really _ doesn't help with matters.

Because there, standing by the huddle of businessmen, is Vickie Vale.

And she's looking right at him. 

Instantly, the bundle of nerves at the base of his neck goes  _ screaming,  _ and his heartbeat picks up to a gallop. She takes a step toward him and Tim decides, without much thought put into it, that he doesn't have it in him to put up with this today.

"Damian," he says, trying to keep his tone even and mostly succeeding, "I'll make a deal with you."

Green eyes peek up at him curiously. 

"What are you proposing, Drake."

_ Inhale, exhale. Keep it together. _

"Distract Vale. Keep her away from me. I'm going to the roof to make a call- uh. Tell... tell Bruce I'm hanging out with Kon."

"And in return?"

Tim licks his lips.

"In return, I'll tell you what the handshake means and teach you how to do it."

Damian considers him for a moment, his gaze assessing. 

And then, quieter than Tim would have expected, gentler, the kid gives a curt nod.

"Go, then, if you're leaving."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, gives himself an internal mental shake, and clenches and unclenches his fists for a moment. Then he gives the younger boy an awkward pat on the back and makes for the elevator.

Just as the doors close behind him, he hears Damian intercept Vale and start up the agreed upon exaggerated account on Dick's most recent escapade.

Tim heads for the roof.

The wind is brisk once he steps outside. It's brisk and freezing cold, and Tim breathes it in with some strange form of gratification, sticking his head between his knees until the worst of the nausea passes. 

He works on unclenching his muscles, one by one.

There are a half-dozen people he could call. But this is stupid, it’s stupid, and Tim wants to get it over with and start talking with his boyfriend and apologize properly and maybe this is a sign from the universe to just get it done  _ already.  _

So he takes out his phone and calls Kon. He hates how the ringing makes his shoulders hunch, how when Conner picks up all the tension doesn't just seep from his body like water and instead draws tighter.

Their fight lingers in the forefront of his mind.

If this were the other way around, if Kon had called Tim and he needed help, Tim would be there. In a heartbeat. Tim could shove this entire thing into a little box in his brain and he’d work hard and he'd prove himself and things would be _ fine. _

But Kon wasn’t calling Tim. Conner Kent’s contact only had a few brief messages to its name since their argument, a couple of check in’s and a couple of memes. 

Tim swallows, his throat dry.

"Hey, uh, sorry, hey, I know- I know we’re not perfect right now. I know. I’m sorry- about that. About me. Sorry. But, would you be willing, I mean, if you don’t mind, can you come pick me up? And we could- talk? Sorry, you don’t have to. If you don’t want to. Or if you’re still..."

_...mad at me.  _

Great. Apparently, even if Tim avoids actually throwing up today, this by no means stops him from word vomiting all over the place. Shit. And  _ apparently,  _ his brain took the message of apology and ran with it, deciding if _ sorry  _ didn’t filter every other word he’d straight up die. 

This is off to a great start. 

The sound of Kon shuffling around on the other end of the line comes through. Tim can imagine him, out in the barn or standing golden in the sun, warm and smiling and somewhere far away from all this mess.

"Yeah, sure, give me a minute. You okay?"

His heart is beating too fast, palpitations thrumming under the skin. He feels like he's going to be sick.

He breathes. Control.  _ Control.  _ Kon has enough on his plate without throwing his boyfriend’s anxiety into the mix.

"Fine," he says casually, and messes with the cuff of his jacket. The question has become how much Tim should really reveal. "It's just really stuffy at this meetup Bruce had to go to. We were supposed to be home ages ago."

Conner hums: he sounds distracted. Tim pictures him leaning over a tractor, frowning at its engine. He pictures him making dinner. He pictures him doing slow and normal and casual things.

Slow. Repetitive. Focus on Kon, not on the thousands of thoughts whirling and swirling and screaming inside your head.

Tim breathes.

Over the line, Conner sighs.

"Speaking of homes… what about you just come over to my place? Just- we could hang out on the barn, or go for a walk, Martha's making twice baked potatoes for dinner tonight-"

Kon is giving him an opening, he thinks. A chance to make things right. An offer to come over to Kent's place and smooth this whole thing over.

And Tim thinks,  _ can't you just give it a break? _

And Tim thinks,  _ I don't have time for this, I don't have the energy for this- _

And Tim thinks,  _ I'm acting irritable and irrational and I need to not take it out on my boyfriend. _

Tim breathes. He had been hoping, stupidly, that Conner would know. That he’d realize that Tim  _ wasn’t  _ fine, even though that’s stupid. Still, the cluster of nerves at the back of his neck vibrate in near violent intensity, his stomach curling in knots. He thinks of long empty houses and voicemails left unanswered on the phone.

And he hisses, "Would you please just  _ shut up  _ about dragging me to Smallville?"

And then his jaw clamps shut.

_ Idiot,  _ he thinks,  _ idiot, idiot, stupid idiotic idiot. _

Kon over the line lets out a breath, in shock, in anger, and Tim's knuckles are white on his phone.  _ Just apologize, _ he thinks, and his tongue feels like a lump of coal in his mouth.

"Why are you so against meeting my family?"

"I-"

"Is it because they're farmers? Not rich enough for you?"

"Of course not-"

"Then  _ why?  _ Because you keep blowing me off every single time I offer and I really want you to meet them."

Tim licks his lips. There are sirens blaring in his head, loud and continuous and stealing all his words. His jaw aches and his eyes sting and his heart is _pounding_ _pounding pounding._

How do you tell someone that your parents left you alone for weeks on end and they fucked you up so much you're still reeling from the effects years later?

How do you tell someone you're just that  _ pathetic _ and even now just the thought of meeting your partner's parental units fills you with absolute and utterly panicky dread?

Because things always go wrong. They  _ always always  _ go wrong, and grown ups never like you, even  _ Bruce  _ you had to convince to keep you on with blood and sweat and tears and blackmail, and if Martha and John Kent hate you, the most important people to Conner in the world, then you're going to lose one of the best things you've got going for you just like  _ that _ .

And you've got very good things going for you.

So  _ how? _

If you're Tim Drake, you don't.

You just don't. 

And you scramble for excuses instead.

(He's going to be sick.)

"Reporters-"

And Kon bulldozes over him, words coming out fast and pained , and every last one of them feels like a knife.

"Fuck, Tim, grow a fucking  _ backbone.  _ You need to stop caring about what the rest of the world thinks! What do you think!? What do you care about!? Huh? Don’t I get to know that? I’ll let you keep all the secrets you need to feel safe but can’t I just know  _ that!?” _

Tim inhales and exhales. His stomach is a hurricane, his heart a pounding drum. 

_ Apologize,  _ he thinks, and stays silent.

His boyfriend lets out a harsh breath over the line, disappointed and sour. 

And then he hangs up.

It looks like he doesn't need any help to ruin good things after all. He should have known: it's on course with the rest of his existence.

The sun starts to set over Gotham city. Tim stands frozen for one moment. Then two. 

Then he carefully lowers his phone from his ear, turns his head, and throws up.

* * *

Tim huddles in a corner of Wayne Building and has a panic attack for roughly thirty four minutes. 

It is not his most glorious moment. 

If he had gone back down, Bruce would have given him a ride back to the manor. But Tim doesn’t want to look at Bruce, or Dick, or any grown up, and he  _ does not  _ want to look at the manor and all it’s fucking empty space.

Besides, knowing his luck, he’s probably missed them. 

He ends up calling Jason after an hour of deliberation. 

It's late in the evening, the night sky finally swallowing the last of the daylight. Jason picks up on the third ring, cracks a joke Tim doesn't respond to, and agrees with slight confusion in his voice when Tim asks if he can stay the night. 

The confusion only grows when he asks to be picked up from the top of Wayne Tower, but the older man agrees to that, too.

Tim is relieved. Tim is exhausted. He doesn't have the energy to explain. 

The ride to the safe house is quiet. Jason keeps flashing him concerned looks, which he ignores. 

When they get there, Tim throws up stomach bile into the parking lot's trash can, ignoring the way Jason watches. Presses his forehead against the mirror of the elevator and pretends to can't hear the older boy as he questions  _ what the hell is going on. _

When they get into the crappy apartment, Tim curls up on the couch and tries to sleep, to keep his mind from spiralling.

He drifts. 

Jason's voice, coming from the kitchen, overlayed with worry.

"-on't know what to do, Dick. He's thrown up at least twice and he's hardly said a word since he asked for a ride-"

Tim presses against the couch cushions. He squeezes his eyes tight. He doesn't want to think about it.

He drifts.

Someone throws a weighted blanket over him, putters around the living room closing the curtains and turning on the heater.

Tim counts his own heartbeat, still thrumming too fast in his chest. Tries to unclench his jaw and finds he can’t. The bundle of nerves at the base of his neck is filling his head with warning sirens, loud and consistent and drowning all the logic out. His entire body feels like a singular clamped fist. He breathes.

He drifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friends please if you ever find yourself as sad and anxious as Tim is feeling, talk to someone. there are people in your corner, i promise *hugs*


	28. stop <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for more panic attacks, anxiety, and negative unhealthy thinking

“Hey. Hey, kid, wake up.”

Tim comes to awareness in slow drags, keeping his eyes closed. The tiredness clings to his bones, that kind of post-panic attack exhaustion that weighs so heavy.

He grunts, presses his cheek against the throw pillow that somehow got under his head. “I’m awake, go away,” he murmurs, and swallows around the bad taste in his mouth: sleep breath and dried vomit.

“Uhuh, and I’m the Queen of England. The minute I leave you’re just gonna pass out again. This is the _second_ time I’ve tried to get your lazy ass up and at’em.”

If Jason would do him the momentous favor of shutting up, his life would immediately improve. It’s irrelevant that he’s right, and Tim is very much intending on going back to sleep. 

Bastard. Tim’s _tired._

The press of a boot against his shoulder, shoving roughly in a rocking rhythm that has his eyelids peeling open and glaring at his older brother with a scowl. He slept with his contacts in, and the grimy feeling adds on to an already terrible morning.

Unrepentant, Jason smiles wanly down at him, digging his heel in one last time. There is mud on his shirt. His brother is a monster. Tim considers wiping the dirt off on the older boy’s clean couch in revenge.

“C’mon, Timbo, I’ve been assigned chauffeur duty. Dealing with your emotionally repressed teen angst is way above my paygrade.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Tim snarks, and pulls himself upright. Blinking black spots out of his eyes and ignoring the headache pounding at the base of his skull, he is able to recognize that this is not one of his finer moments. 

Not that it matters. None of this matters. 

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

Shaky inhale, shaky exhale. Tim really can’t afford to lose it two days in a row. 

Compartmentalize. _Compartmentalize._

_Focus, focus, focus-_

A hand on his shoulder, and the only reason Tim doesn’t flinch is because a buttload of training. Instead, he blinks blearily up at Jason, who is looking down at him with a twisted expression under a blank facade. He probably has pillow creases on his face, and the bed hair of the century. He probably looks like shit.

He feels like shit.

Jason sighs.

“Fifteen minutes. There’s a change of clothes in the restroom. Take a fucking shower so you don’t stink up my car, and then we’re hitting the road. Got it?”

His mouth feels _rancid._ He nods anyways, and then hesitates.

“Can I have a glass of water, first?”

“No, Tim, didn’t you know I’m an absolute monster- _of course_ you can have a glass of water. Idiot.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, choosing to focus his energy on standing up and taking himself to the kitchen. Jason calls out after him to wash his glass when he’s done, words drawling out of his mouth like he can’t quite help it. Tim grabs a mug from the cupboards because he knows it will irritate the older man, using a coffee cup for tap water, and Tim is feeling _petty._

Also, he accidentally sort of grabbed the mug on sheer instinct, body already craving caffeine. But that can be his little secret. 

His head hurts.

Tim drinks, rubbing his tongue and then his fingers over his teeth until they feel a little less grungy. Then he goes to the bathroom and gets into the shower, because he feels gross. Because there’s mud on his shirt from Jason’s boot and dried sweat on his skin from the panic attack. Because he can still taste vomit in his mouth. 

Because Tim messed up so fucking bad. 

But he’s not thinking about that.

Under the warm spray, he presses a clammy hand over his nose and mouth and breathes into it, breathes into it, trying to hold steady. There’s something oddly soothing about the narrowed scope of airflow, the way each inhale and exhale presses through his fingers, grounding him. Tim has been in this exact position before, back when he still lived in Drake Manor, back when he had been drowning in grief. Sometimes he would just stand there for hours, breathing. 

Tim doesn’t have hours. Tim has about ten minutes. 

One last steadying breath, and Tim gets to work. He makes the executive decision to also not think about how disappointing it is that he’s relying on such stupid coping mechanisms again. He thought he had been getting better. He was supposed to be getting better. 

The clothes sitting on the bathroom counter fit, ruling them out from being Jason’s. Tim pulls them on stiltedly, one limb at the time, going through the motions. He wonders, vaguely, who they belong to, if Jason had bought them with specific scenarios like this in mind. The thoughts filter into the forefront of his mind and then filter out. There is a bit of a blockage between his brain and the rest of the world, his brain and the roiling emotions in his gut.

Tim is glad for it. 

The next thing he knows, his dirty clothes have been shoved into a plastic bag and they’re sitting in a beat-up Honda Civic. Jason starts the car and then shoves four granola bars onto his lap, along with a water bottle and a couple of tylenols.

Tim takes the tylenol immediately, then a swig of water, and then nibbles on one of the bars when Jason starts to side-eye him from the driver’s seat. He’s not hungry, but he can recognize that if he doesn’t eat _something_ he’ll probably feel worse in the long run.

Also, Jason would most definitely tattle on him to Alfred.

Asshole. 

The car starts up, and Jason hesitates, hand on the wheel. Tim scowls at the annoyingly bright logo on his plastic baggie of possessions and says, more bitingly than intended, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Wasn’t going to ask, squirt. Was going to tell you to put on your fucking seatbelt.”

That was most definitely _not_ what he was going to say. Tim gives him the benefit of the doubt and puts it on anyways.

They drive. Tim eats processed granola and baby peanut butter chocolate chips, scrolls through his phone. There’s a message from Bruce telling him to please let _him_ know before he leaves, instead of just informing Damian. There’s a message from Steph with a ridiculous meme and doesn’t quite manage to make him laugh through the emotional disconnect. An email from Wayne Industries he chooses to ignore. Bart left a voice message asking if he wants to hang out next weekend. Harper has sent a picture of her and Cullen at the arcade, the blue of her hair almost purple in the red lighting. Dick has given him the heads up that the arrangements have been made for Tim to stay over at his apartment for the weekend, no doubt in response to all this mess.

There is absolutely nothing from Conner. 

Tim turns off his phone, leans his head against the cool pane of the window, and tries to go back to sleep.

* * *

_friends its time to talk about something. something important. something vital_

_DAT ASS_

_i see you all ignoring this but ITS TRUE. like i know that grayson is the fandom darling of beautiful butts but i think were unjustly ignoring our very own bi icon timothy drake wayne and his absolutely glorious ass_

_Oh Look! Another Person To Block!! Hooray! ಠ︵ಠ_

_Hello yes please fucking understand that Dick Grayson is an Adult who purposely posed for the m a j o r i t y of those pictures and Tim Drake is a fucking MINOR who is definitely Not Consenting for the fucking majority of those creepy papparazzi shots that you have so grossly displayed all over your fucking blog_

_every time i come across a post like this i die a little bit inside i swear_

_to everyone speculating whether or not Tim and Conner are still together: stop <3 _

_Conner Kent is the man they’re talking about when they say Not All Men_

_writing RPF is so weird because on one hand i love these people so much and this is my way expressing it but on the other hand i have to deal with the never ending existential dread of bruce wayne ever learning about the fact that i have written a crack fic of him dealing with getting his wisdom teeth removed and crying over all his kids_

_Bold of you to assume that this isn’t 10000% correct_

_you’re so right. i am. a prophet._

_I Wish_ _TIM DRAKE AND HIS BISEXUAL POSSEE_ _A Very Pleasant Evening_

_is it really so wrong to want to wanna poke kent’s biceps?? asking for a friend_

_But they’ve broken up right? They’ve totally broken up_

_I love Tim so much. I would die for him in a heartbeat. If anyone needs me imma be figuring out how to sneak into wayne manor_

_*reblogs a gif of the forehead kiss* *reblogs a gif of the forehead kiss* *reblogs a gif of the forehead kiss* *reblogs a gif of the for*_

_!!!!! I HAVE COMPLETED IT. IT IS DONE. Look at my efforts and weep because i have literally compiled every Tim Drake moment we have ever gotten on video outside of press conferences - with the notable exception of The Press Conference where he came out <3 <3 <3 _

_Yall better be so proud of me._

_not the hero we thought we needed but the hero we deserved_

_Oh my gods Timothy used to be so TINY and he still is tiny but he used to be even TINIER_

_10:39_ _how on earth did you even find this background TimCon in this video i am in awe?_

_i am but a simple woman, i see tiny prepubescent waynes, i reblog_

_Please Still Be Together Please Still Be Together Please StILL BE TOGETHER_

_Stop worrying your tits. I’m sure they’re fine_

_Look! Art! (please remember to support artists and reblog, folk!)_

_OP YOU ARE SO TALENTED. HOW THE SHITBALLS DID YOU GET THAT SHADING IN_

_AAAAH THANK YOUUU (the answer is hours. hours and hours and hours. so many)_

_*blows a kiss to Gotham*_

_for the waynes_

_I can just see it now, Tim Drake and Conner Kent, curled up together and living their best lives, as they deserve_

_these kind of posts make me so pissed off you wouldn’t believe. like. you get the waynes are still rich right? they’re fucking assholes by default (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻_

_Oh honey. You new here?_

_1.) Bruce Wayne keeps losing his billionaire status by giving is money away to good causes and all his employees fucking love him because he is a Good Boss 2.) Even if Brucie WAS an asshole, you still shouldn’t blame his kids??? Fuck you_

_Tim Drake <3 Conner Kent _

_And Would you lookie here?? Guess who was fucking RIGHT about TimCon being a shitty scam just to get attention?? everyone on here are naive idiots_

_fandom can have a little gifset. as a treat._

_I am Looking. Respectfully_

_Okay. Okay look i know i have been promising this analysis on the waynes and the bats ForFuckingEver but it has been completed and here you all are. both of these groups have fundamentally helped this city become such a better place through cleaning up the criminal underbelly and through structurally changing gotham for the better, especially for disenfranchised groups. In this essay…._

_Read More_

_you actually wrote the entire essay *shocked pikachu face*_

_This!! All This!! Thank you!!_

_no new pictures of TimCon in weeks. they’ve definitely broken up :/_

_Blocked. Reported. Get outta my sight scum_

_TIMCON IS FOREVER ASSHOLE_

_I actually AM getting pretty worried??? I want to see my babies together please_

_They. Are not. yOURS._

_you know what I mean._

* * *

He ends up grounded.

Not officially. Not as an intended punishment, though it sort of feels like it. Not even for all that long. It’s just that Bruce took one look at him upon arriving home with Jason in tow, the bags under his eyes and his general… entire being, sighed, and declared Tim on a mandatory break.

“Sleep, Tim,” Bruce had said, very quietly, very steadily. “No patrolling and no vigilante work, until you’re back to at least six hours. And if you need to talk…”

The offer to talk was awkward as hell, stiff but well meaning in the manner that Bruce always is. Tim is just glad he didn’t bring up his meds, that he didn’t have to lie to the older man’s face. Tim is just glad Bruce didn’t try to _enforce_ a talk, instead seeming content to let it sit until Dick could get at him this upcoming Friday.

They probably don’t want to pressure him. The last time the family tried to pressure him in regards to his mental health was when Bruce was quasi-not dead, and _that_ time Tim essentially vanished into the wind while trying to prove that he was _right, Bruce is alive, dammit, he is,_ and had upheld no contact with the family at all.

So. Yes. Grounded. His work laptop gets confiscated. And all his comns and transmitters. Rude.

Tim is too tired to put up a proper protest, just sort of lets it happen. It helps that he’s purposely bought himself extra laptops and fixed them into the cave’s interface for situations just like this. He’s cut off, but only until he says so.

It involved finicking with the batarang budget, but Tim’s an old hand at that, now.

So now Tim sits cross legged on his bed, Damian before him, running through all the different steps of the handshake as slowly and clearly as possible.

His younger brother’s face is scrunched up between his brow, confusion coming across as frustration. “So I would do this with Grayson if father is…? What? Overprotective? He is _always_ overprotective. He underestimates my capabilities.”

Tim snorts, absentmindedly corrects Damian’s fingers.

“Not quite. It’s when, I dunno. When you’re not really super in trouble or anything, but you make him feel protective of you. Like, maybe you don’t wanna deal with a situation cause it’s annoying or whatever, so you look at Bruce kind of sad and he decides to take you out for ice cream.”

Damian is frowning carefully at his hands. He looks very small, standing in front of the bed in a hoodie and sweats. There was a time Tim wouldn’t have been able to imagine the kid out of an outfit just beneath full blown armour. Now he’s casually wearing a sweatshirt with a full blown tiny shark pattern. 

“How?”

“I dunno. Dick has like, an entire list of stuff he does. I tend to just hunch my shoulders up and look at Bruce with slightly wider eyes than usual.”

The kid looks absolutely befuddled. 

“And father _falls_ for this?”

Tim shrugs. “As you said, Bruce is overprotective, so… yeah. And if you succeed-” he mimics the grand finale- “you do the handshake.”

“Tt.”

It is quiet for a moment, then two. Damian runs through the motions in silence, practicing little flicks and curves and a look of intense concentration of his face. When he finishes, he looks up at Tim for approval, which he gives with a nod and a little shooing gesture.

“Okay, I held up my end of the bargain. Now get out of my room.”

Damian leaves. 

And Tim is alone.

He swipes a hand over his face, trying to breathe steady. Distraction gone, the guilt ballooning inside his lungs becomes impossible to ignore. The world presses in so heavy, buzzing behind his ears, leaving his hands shaking. 

Shit. Shit.

Tim is sitting in his room. Alone. There is absolutely nothing to justify this. 

_Grow a fucking backbone. Grow a fucking backbone. Grow a fucking back bone._

Kon is right. He needs to just- grow the fuck up. He needs to stop being so fucking stupid. _Other_ people don’t immediately panic the second they’re left alone with their thoughts. _Other_ people can go on social media without getting painful pins and needles in their spines from the very thought of people just… focusing on them. _Other_ people talk with their significance others and communicate and can meet the family without dissolving into pure fucking panic. 

_Grow. A. Fucking. Backbone._

Tim grabs his phone, fumbles and messes up the password twice. Squeezes his hands into fists to stop the shaking and then types his name into the search bar, clicks the first link he sees. 

And it is. A lot. 

Clenching his jaw, he scrolls through it, scowling. Because Tim fights the slums of Gotham for a living and he _should_ be able to handle this. This is a stupid flaw that he needs to get over because it gets between him and other people. Looking at people theorizing about him and his personal life, digging into his history and his everyday existence, or his relationship with his boyfriend, it shouldn’t mean anything, or it should be vaguely amusing, or it should be a mild discomfort easily ignored.

It shouldn’t be making him feel sick.

Tim feels sick.

_Grow a fucking backbone._

Commentary, commentary, art, analysis, commentary, video compilations, crack post, commentary, art, fanfiction, very _explicit_ art what the fuck is that even _legal_ and more commentary, more pictures, more gifs, and-

He wants to throw up. He’s going to throw up. 

Shit. Fuck. _Shit._

He exits out of the page and turns off his phone, tossing it further up the bed and putting his head between his knees, breathing thickly, hands shaking and his spine pulling taught and painful, feeling like it's being tangled and straightened and rearranged. His jaw hurts, and he unclenches it, hating the way his own inhales and exhales seem to reverberate in his ears. It sounds like failure.

It’s so _stupid_ because Tim handles the press fine as Red Robin. He handles Wayne Industries fine, and business related news is usually over before he has any real time to worry about it. But his brain has decided to latch onto the fact that people are paying attention to him now, to _Tim_ now, and his personal life, and his relationships, and his everything, and it doesn’t like it. It doesn’t like that concentrated focus. 

Fuck. How the hell is he ever supposed to make anything up to Kon if he can’t handle this? This is such a tiny problem out of a much bigger broken machine that is- _was_ \- their relationship and he’s already failing.

Kon might not ever even want to talk to him again. 

Angrily, he swipes at his eyes. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He swallows down stomach bile and forces himself to inhale deeply and let it go. He’s going to take a shower. Tim’s going to take a shower, either to breathe into the hollows of his hands for an hour or to try and metaphorically drown himself while standing up. 

He’ll decide on the way. 

* * *

_hey kiddo_

_look_

_i know you’re going through a tough time right now_

_and i’ll admit i’m not sure what exactly is going on in that big head of yours_

_but i’m here for you_

_I promise_

_bruce just texted me like twenty times_

_he’s worried about you_

_so is the rest of the fam_

_not gonna lie, i’m worried too_

_hope you know you have A LOT of people in your corner_

_give me a call!_

_reminder that whatever it is you’re going through, we’ll work through it_

_one step at a time_

_just like always_

_this weekend we’ll talk ok?_

_i wish i could have brought you over here earlier_

_but there has been_

_stuff_

_happening down here in bludhaven_

_and i need to deal with it_

_cause when we get together i want my attention to be on you all the way_

_not half there because i’m worrying about other stuff_

_i know that i said there’s stuff going down_

_but that doesn’t mean that stuff is more important than you_

_if you need me, you call_

_or even if you just vaguely kind of want to_

_it’s all good_

_i’ll pick you up from the manor around two tomorrow ok?_

_we can figure stuff out from there_

_we’ll talk_

_stay safe tim_

_love you_

* * *

The week passes like slow molasses. 

There’s nothing for it, just the creeping passage of time and Tim alone in his room, sleeping and taking showers in turns. Sometimes, his other siblings stop by and try and cheer him up without directly stating that’s what they’re doing. Stephanie checks in practically every day, text messages and phone calls and late nights. 

Dick calls. A lot. Tim lets it ring through, curling his fingers into fists, because he knows his older brother and he knows that whatever kindness the man has to offer, he doesn’t deserve it. Because he wants to put off any conversation until it’s unavoidable, even though he’s probably hurting Dick’s feelings. The counter for unread text messages by Dick’s name goes up each evening and Tim lets it happen.

Every day, for at least a couple of hours, Tim goes down to the gym and goes through the training regime, sparring with any available person pre-patrol or otherwise working out alone. 

It wouldn’t do to get too out of shape. It wouldn’t do to shut down completely. 

So for three days, Tim falls into a stale routine only disrupted when Alfred or Bruce come and pull him into a meal or family activity. At the very least, he is definitely getting those six hours in.

And a lot more than that, if he’s going to be honest. A concerning amount more.

But Tim’s not thinking about that. Tim’s compartmentalizing.

And taking another shower. 

It’s a weird disruption of routine when he exits said shower and finds Cass sitting on his bed Thursday evening, resting her chin on her knees and staring at him with a rather keen expression. Tim’s shirt is sticking to his back, his wet bangs getting in his eyes. He feels weirdly vulnerable, standing in his pajamas before her.

Cass tilts her head. Lifts her fingers in a tiny little wave and settles again, staring.

He clears his throat.

“Hi, Cass. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Those powerful shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, languid grace of a panther and just as dangerous, too. There are a lot of tabloids and articles out there that call her delicate, and Tim has never been able to see it. 

“Seeing you,” she says, and reaches out to him, grabbing his wrist and tugging him onto the bed. “Came earlier, too. You slept.”

It’s Tim’s turn to shrug, and he does so awkwardly. There is a hole in his sock and he focuses on that rather than her face, her all too knowing eyes.

“Well, yeah. It’s what Bruce said to do, isn’t it?”

She touches his ear, tugs a little bit at an errant strand of hair. She is frowning a little, when he peaks up at her, but not angrily. It’s Cass’ thinking face, the one she makes while putting words together in her mind. 

“You are still tired.”

It isn’t a question. Tim shrugs again, wiggles his bare toe. You’d think, having grown up in two incredibly rich households, he’d not have this particular problem. But Tim likes this pair of socks, so here he is. 

Tim _still_ is tired. He’s emotionally exhausted and his body feels like it’s shutting down on him. Kon deserves the entire world and instead all he got was a stupid kid with too much ambition and a broken brain that doesn’t know how to produce enough serotonin. A kid who didn’t treat him right because he was too busy panicking.

Cass continues to look at him, and then all too suddenly she is jumping onto her feet. She crooks her finger at him, edges towards the door.

“Mission. Come.”

Tim blinks. “I’m not cleared for missions.”

Cass waves it off. “Never stops you. Come.”

And, well, she’s right.

He has a sneaking suspicion that Bruce didn’t necessarily want him to know, that this has been purposely kept on the down low. He also has a sneaking suspicion that Cass has realized the inactivity is being entirely unhelpful, giving him far too much time to think. 

When Tim’s brain hates him, thinking is a very dangerous game.

It will feel good to help people again. It’s only been a few days, but Tim’s missed it. 

He’s missed having a sense of purpose. 

* * *

"So," Barbara says, fingers rubbing at her temples, "we've got trouble." Her chair reflects the gleam of the computer lights.

"Babs, we've always got trouble."

"I'm well aware. Thank you, Duke."

Duke shrugs, as if to say _just doing my part,_ and leans further against the wall. Harper, next to him, let's loose an aborted snort.

Tim sits at the little conference table in one of the side rooms of the caves. It is unerringly like being in a board meeting, except Bab’s face is projected across the monitor and everyone is suited up in kevlar and primary colours.

And black. A lot of black. 

Dick is down in Bludhaven, he knows, but Tim can’t remember quite why Jason, Damian, and Steph aren’t present.

Scratch that. Steph has exams. And a head cold. 

And he _thinks_ he heard Alfred talking about Damian twisting his knee last patrol.

So Jason is the only blank spot, and Jason is a bit of a wild card anyways. It’s almost a relief, because now he doesn’t have to deal with seeing him after being a completely uninvited breakdown in his apartment.

Still, Tim’s glad he came down, though Bruce had frowned when he first saw him in costume. But the man must have realized what Tim has realized, that four people isn’t a lot, when it comes down to it, and if this bit of trouble is big enough to include Duke this late in the evening, well. An extra set of hands definitely can’t hurt.

Even if they’re Tim’s hands.

Cass’ foot nudges his own, making him refocus on the matter at hand. Right. _Right._

“You know our bomber friend? Well, we have another lead. The _problem_ is that, after our last little playdate,” Tim winces, thinking about that night, about the assholes who got away, about Kon’s cold stone face, “our perpetrator decided to skip town and haul up in Metropolis.”

No one is obvious enough to turn and stare right at him, but they don’t have to. Tim can _feel_ their shifting focus, and it makes him want to gauge his own eyes out with a toothpick.

Instead, he smiles too sharp.

“If you think I’m skipping this mission, please understand I can and will do despicable things to you and your person.”

It’s enough. Barbara purses her lips and moves on, discussing mission parameters and their meet up with the Supers.

In truth, Tim has a knot of anxiety building at the base of his spine at just the _thought_ of seeing Conner again. 

_Grow a fucking backbone._

If it means finding some sort of closure for all the people who lost someone on the bombed bridges, Tim can face a lot more than an awkward, stressful, and tension frought reunion with his boyfriend.

Ex boyfriend?

He hopes not. He wouldn’t be surprised, though. 

It’s hard to surprise Tim with bad news, these days. 

“We’ll head out in ten minutes,” Bruce says, quite calmly, and vanishes, presumably to start up the batplane.

Tim breathes. Breathes.

Time to face the fucking music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello yes this is my gentle and loving reminder that if you have poor mental health you ARE so worthy of love and help and kindness and you ARE absolutely wonderful and deserve entire worlds and so much happiness. Tim's thoughts are untrue and this chapter is heavy, so if you feel like he's feeling, please talk to somebody. You are so strong for making it this far. Keep on pushing on. <3
> 
> Next Chapter, we be moving away from angst and towards our climax, and then from there we go towards our happy resolution :)


	29. Everyone is so dramatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for missing last update, friends. Real life decided to go haywire.
> 
> Also this chapter HATED ME i rewrote is so many times of my fricken hell it was awful but now it's DONE
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Injuries, guns, Police Mention

It starts like this.

Three buildings. Three teams. Three opportunities to figure out who the hell is behind all this.

Batman pairs Superman with Black Bat, himself with Blue Bird and Signal, and Red Robin with Superboy. Tim thinks that he and Kon were put together out of habit rather than any actual thought, having sensed the microsecond of hesitation following Bruce’s decree. He knows, usually, that it’s a logical choice.

Except right now they’re fighting. 

Or broken up. 

Or something.

But Tim’s not thinking about that.

Or, at least, he’s trying not to. 

“There’s a lot of ground to cover, but stay together and stay low.” Batman says, words cold and clipped and low. “This is a _stealth mission._ We’re trying to find the identity of the perpetrator, how big this operation is, and motives.”

Oracle cuts in. “Whoever the hell this guy is, they’re tricky. They’ve avoided a digital trail like it’s the plague, and it was basically a work of art to get the info I did. Still, it means any information you can get your hands is good information, at this point.”

Nodding heads and concentrated faces. Something in Batman’s face gives way to Bruce, a soft tilt to his expression, a loosening to his jaw.

“Oracle is on comns. Call for assistance as needed.”

Translation: _Stay safe. Don’t be bullheaded idiots. Stay_ _safe._

The truth of the matter is, Bruce is a big ol’ sap.

They don’t talk about it enough.

But then again, Tim has no place to complain when it comes to talking about things. He’s been breathing too harshly under the din of a showerhead and sleeping too often all week long. There’s guilt crawling out of his stomach and into his lungs, apologies catching on his tongue in the most unpleasant way. Kon stands besides him, a little too far to the left, and he doesn’t look Tim’s way.

 _He hates you, he hates you, you messed everything up and now he hates you_ plays on a loop in his brain, and it takes everything in him to clamp down on it and shove it aside. Now is not the time for a fucking emotional crisis.

_Focus, compartmentalize, focus, focus, focus._

There’s a mass murderer on the loose with who knows how many bombs. People are depending on him. Red Robin is a _professional,_ and he intends on acting like it. 

He breathes. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Across the way, Cass catches his eye, offers a small wave before disappearing over the rooftop with Superman in tow. 

_Get in, get what we need, and get out,_ Tim thinks, _you can hold yourself together through that much. You can._

_It should be easy enough._

* * *

Tim is a fucking idiot. 

* * *

Things immediately go to shit.

Because of course they do. 

Three buildings. Three teams. Get in and get out and get what’s needed. 

He and Kon sneak into a small side window, disarming alarms and breaking the bars, slipping into a long hallway in perfect tandem. They’ve hardly investigated three rooms when the first spray of bullets sounds over the comns, and Red Robin winces when Superman lets loose a ragged gasp over the comns. 

It’s not hard to imagine what’s happened. Across the city of Metropolis, Cass and Clark must have been found. Here, in their own little building, blaring alarms sound, flashing red and grating at his ears, and besides him Superboy flinches.

Bluebird immediately pops up. _"What's going on?"_

 _"They’re prepped for kryptonians.”_ Clark sounds pained.

 _“Kryptonite bullets,”_ Black Bat intones, her voice hissing through her teeth. She must be lugging Superman to safety, bearing his bulky weight and dealing with gunmen on their trail.

 _Shit,_ Red Robin thinks.

 _"Shit."_ Duke unknowingly echoes him. He must have realized the same think Tim has: they were probably expected.

Batman agrees, grunting over the line in that displeased way he does when a plan falls apart like this. Three separate buildings and they’re all communicating. All talking. One has just entered a red alert and now all of them have been pulled in.

They were _definitely_ expecting them. Fuck.

Red Robin and Superboy tense up at the sound of pounding feet coming their way.

Blaring alarms, more gunfire over the comns. 

_“Everyone, evacuate-”_ Bruce starts to say, voice clipped and calm and too controlled, the way it gets when he’s pissed. The way it gets when he’s scared. 

But it’s too late. There’s a _shrieking_ noise of metal walls sliding out of lead casings, and Red Robin blinks when the hallway suddenly gets a lot darker, the windows blacked out by dark metal walls.

Blinks when Superboy besides him immediately stumbles, paling rapidly to a sickly pallor.

There are green flecks in the walls.

_Fuck._

Feet are pounding closer. Chances of them not having any kryptonite are essentially zero.

_Double fuck._

Three teams. Three buildings. They were expecting the bases to be safehouses, places to lay low for their perp and whatever accessorizing goons that were out and about. They were expecting to gather intel and crack down on the figurehead on the way out.

Instead, it seems that they’re armed to the gills and prepped enough to take on two kryptonians. Instead, it seems that the bases have been traps all along. The stealth mission has converted into a game of cat and mouse. 

Three guesses as to who's the mouse. First two don't count.

* * *

**_TOP TEN SUPERMAN’S GREATEST MOMENTS_ **

**_CARFORD MASTER’S GALA OF THE YEAR_ **

**_LUTHOR INDUSTRIES STOCKS ON THE RISE_ **

**_FIVE REASONS WHY SUPERMAN IS BETTER THAN BATMAN_ **

**_TOP TWELVE PLACES TO VISIT IN METROPOLIS_ **

**_CELEBRITY LINE UP AT CARFORD’S CHARITY EVENT_ **

**_GUNSHOTS FIRED UPTOWN METROPOLIS_ **

* * *

There are three things Superboy knows.

Thing Number One: Kon’s hurt, Kon’s hurt because Smallville is important to him, Ma and Pa are important to him, and Tim knows that. Kon _told_ him that. Smallville is his home, one that he built despite a hell a lot of fear and insecurity lying in his chest. He came out of a tube in a sterile lab when his artificially created existence began and now he wakes up in the morning and eats warm meals and receives warm touches and he _lives._

Tim had dismissed that. All of it, even knowing how hard it was to get where he was.

It makes him angry, in some ways, a thrumming sort of frustration building up in his veins. Not being met halfway in a relationship that’s supposed to be about trust will do that to you.

Thing Number Two: No matter how upset or angry Kon may be, he’s also biting on the guilt souring his tongue. He lost his temper, he knows he did, he knows he messed up and he should have chilled the fuck out. It had only been hours later that Kon had realized how messed up Tim had sounded over the phone, that the conversation had probably been _more_ than a botched attempt at apologizing. His ever independent boyfriend had called asking for _help,_ and instead Conner had taken all his insecurities and thrown them in his face.

It makes him feel like a monster, if he’s going to be honest. He promised himself he’d be more than a weapon.

Thing Number Three: He fucking _hates_ kryptonite. 

It’s not like there’s a ton of it, in the walls. In fact, it’s probably miniscule when you do the math behind it. But there is more than enough for Superboy to feel nauseous as all hell and quite a bit unsteady. More than enough that his powers are out of whack. 

Which in turn means Tim is picking up _his_ slack in what has abruptly become a murder house.

“Superboy! Get _down!”_

Conner ducks on instinct, Red Robin’s command voice reverberating into his bones. It’s been ingrained in him to listen, and it proves to be a good thing when a splatter of bullets collide with the wall where his chest once was.

There’s a green tint to the bullets. He feels sick. 

The alarms are still blaring.

Underneath the mask, Tim’s face is stained with sweat and grime. His lips are pursed in concentration and concern, focus flickering towards the encroaching enemies and then back to Kon.

He leans closer. “Hold your breath.”

In the midst of a battle, they fall back on the trust that they built their relationship on. It’s startling, how easy it is. It’s startling, how much he’s missed it. Kon pulls in a deep breath in.

In a move too quick to follow for his kryptonite addled-brain, a smoke bomb is tossed against the floor of the hallway, billowing grey encompassing the area in moments. Red Robin grabs at his wrist, tugging him the right direction, and Superboy follows on wobbly legs.

Is it possible to have a stupid green space rock for a mortal enemy? It can’t be considered all that over dramatic considering the fact it was the bane of his existence.

Quite literally, actually.

The guards are everywhere, patrolling in clusters of seven or ten, a few of each group prepped with kryptonite-laced bullets. Honestly, this whole thing has Luthor’s slimy hands all over it, which sucks, too. Conner hates having a villain for a gene donor. So much fucking baggage comes from it.

Baggage and bullets, that is. 

He’s still holding his breath, and when Red Robin lets go of his wrist to fight another someone off real quick, he has to resist the urge to reach out and grab his boyfriend’s hand back. The quick sounds of flesh hitting flesh and someone’s grunt in pain smacks him in the face with guilt. He feels woozy and shaky and _weak_ and for someone who’s usually invulnerable, it’s pretty goddamn awful. 

Then Tim grabs at his shoulder and tucks them away into a closet but three feet away from where they were just trying to escape. It’s probably pitch black to the naked human eye, but he can see Red Robin just fine, can hear the whirring of his mask as it switches to night vision.

Tim has a finger to his lips, and they stand in silence while the remaining conscious units of the patrol hustle around the corner, searching for their two missing queries without suspecting they might be tucked away right under their nose.

His boyfriend is so smart. And so stupid. Now that the adrenaline of the fight is fading and he has a second to catch his breath, he’s still mad at him.

They both breathe heavily, crammed in a too small closet. Face to face, and everything feels so heavy, a weight between them that Kon doesn’t know how to begin carrying. _Why does this have to be so hard?_ he thinks, and hates that this even registers as a priority while actively being in a battle zone.

He swallows. First, they get out of this alive. He can be angry at the world later.

“Are you okay?”

Tim licks his lips, swipes at his forehead with his arm. A stiff nod in response is both more than what Kon was expecting and less than what he was hoping for. 

“You?” The word is hardly above a mumble.

He feels like he’s been shoved down the garbage disposal in the sink, grounded up into tiny little pieces of gross clump and goo.

“Managing,” he says instead of this, because it’s what he has to be. 

Another jerky nod. 

They breathe in the quiet space for a moment. Two. The situation is officially fucked. 

It’s quiet. Too quiet. Kon wants to frisk Tim over and assure himself of the lack of injuries, but he’s not sure if he has that level of trust, anymore, to touch without asking. Kon wants to go home. He’s tired. His bones ache with slick pain that kryptonite always brings. He spares a thought for Clark, because the man must feel even worse than he is. Kon wants things to go back to normal between them. He wants to fix this, fix the silence and the pain wallowing between them.

Kon wants a lot of things.

Letting out a harsh puff of air, he wraps his arms around his stomach in a failing tactic to resit the urge to puke. “What now?”

“We get out. This situation…it's out of control.”

“Right.” He doesn’t ask how. Watches how his boyfriend’s brow furrows.

Tim likes to talk out loud, when he thinks. The Titans had figured it out over a month or so, after hearing him talk aloud to himself whenever he thought he was alone in a room, only to snap his jaw shut the minute one of them caught his attention. It had taken another month after that for Tim to start actively talking through things with them, rambling thoughts and ideas and theories with excited fingers and animated features.

If things had been normal instead of terrible, Red Robin would be whispering to him right now, talking through the concept maps of his brain and connecting the dots in a verbal format. If things had been normal instead of terrible, Kon would have teased Tim about having a thinking face while the other boy hotly denied it, stolen childish moments in a grown world’s war.

But things are terrible, and Red Robin stays silent.

Y _ou did this to him. Look, look, look at what you did to him. He doesn’t trust you with his words anymore, look at what you lost, you absolute idiot-_

Some traitorous part of his brain thinks, _he’s hurt me and he hasn’t been fair and if this is how it’s going to be I don’t want to put up with it in the slightest._

 _Shut up, asshole,_ Kon thinks back at it, because fuck everything, because they’re going to _fix_ this, fix them, it’s just going to take a little time.

He breathes. Refocuses.

This isn’t the best moment.

They both freeze as a platoon of guards pass by a hallway over, only relaxing once they’ve vanished around the bend. 

The silence filters back in, filled up only by their breathing in all this quiet dark. Kon fumbles for words that refuse to leave his lips and ends up clamping his jaw and his fists instead.

He listens as Red Robin breathes in and out stiltedly for one second, then two, his boyfriend’s heart jackrabbiting in his chest. Then everything even backs out again, in that eerie way bats maintain such meticulous control over their bodies.

“Ready?” Tim asks.

 _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, _I’m sorry and I’m pissed at you and I wish I knew what the hell is going on in your head._

Superboy nods. They slip out of the closet and into the fray.

It’s really unfortunate then, all things considered, when they’re practically immediately cross paths with a bomb.

* * *

_i moved out of gotham PRECISELY to fucking avoid bombs and guess what just fucking happened in metropolis_

_...Bombs???_

_fucking YES_

_sorry op_

_“my child is fine!” your child daydreams about getting adopted by bruce wayne_

_Imma need someone to explain to me what’s going on_

_Baaaasically metropolis was like i’m tired of being Nice. i’m going to go Apeshit. and then it did_

_That explained absolutely nothing thank you_

_there’s some shit going down uptown in a few of the buildings. lots of_ _gunfire_ _and, apparently, some minor_ _explosions_

_Well shit then_

_yuuuuup_

_Does anyone knows if the Waynes are gonna be at the gala tonight??? in metropolis?? I know we’re rivals but DAMMIT i wanna chance to be in the same city as them_

_naaaahhhh there was a whole kahooie earlier about them saying ‘thanks but no thanks’ earlier_

_Dammit_

_*Pats you on the back*_

_People in Metropolis be like Oh Gods There is Some Shooting and act as if it’s the end of the world. Calm your tits_

_i know right??? like for Gotham this is basically another tuesday_

_I don’t know how to tell you this gently… but that isn’t normal. or healthy._

_*we know that, but heeeeyyy*_

_Where’s Batman and his brood when you need them?_

* * *

Barricading yourself into a room is never fun.

Makes things feel a bit hopeless. A bit _this is the last stand_ vibe that no one ever wants in life threatening situations. Shout out to Les Miserables, but Tim’s different.

_“Fuck-”_

Tim’s different, _and_ in pain. Lucky him. The shrapnel in his side is making this already terrible situation infinitely worse. The kevlar had done its job, for the most part, and he’s not dead, but fuck everything does it _hurt._

“Sorry,” Kon hisses, wincing in sympathy. He’s still pale and clammy looking. Digging through Tim’s abdomen with a pair of tweezers probably isn’t helping. “Are you sure you don’t want anything for the pain?”

“No. Gotta- shit- gotta keep clear headed.”

Knowing better than to protest, Conner just ducks his head a little closer and twists just a little deeper, making another grab at the elusive shard. Tim breathes in quick, short pants and keeps a white knuckled grip on the table he’s sitting on. Outside of their barricaded room, a platoon of armed mercenaries for hire are yelling, trying to get through the door.

He closes his eyes tight behind his mask. They do _not_ have the time for this.

“Got it. Got it- it’s out.”

There’s a little plink of metal on metal. Tim keeps his eyes closed and just fucking _breathes_ through the pain for a second, hissing again when Kon starts applying pressure on the wound . 

Ow. Ow. Ow.

Then he concentrates. Focuses.

“Okay,” he says, and it comes out just a little shaky. “Everything else can stay in, just- shit- just hand me my belt. Gonna do some sutures.”

Kon is frowning at him. Looking at him too gently. There are alarms ringing incessantly around them and Tim doesn’t know how to tell him to stop. Conner is _mad_ at him, pissed off and rightly so. Tim’s ruined their relationship so why the _fuck_ is Superboy still looking so kind?

“I know how to do stitches, Red.”

But he jerks his head back and forth in denial, reaches for some thread. “Your hands are shaking.”

“So are yours.”

It takes a second to register. Tim blinks down at his fingers.

Huh. So they are.

“Fuck,” he says, again. It seems to be the mood.

Outside, the yelling gets louder.

* * *

_they must be on a big gay vacation right? they must be out in the bahamas having a good ole time_

_Nooooo there’s been sightings of both of them in their respective cities :(_

_shhhHHH ALLOW ME THIS_

_TimCon is Love TimCon is Life_

_Hey all, this is just a friendly reminder that the reason these two probably broke up is all the fucking pressure fandom put on them, two underage teenage boys. It was gross and it was messed up and it was wrong, and next time something like this happens we HAVE to be better_

_i love how this text post is like… respect their personal lives… while making assumptions of their personal lives… by assuming they’re broken up…_

_Well fuck you too, then_

_writing sad breakup fics. because i’m sad about them breaking up T.T_

_Everyone is so dramatic they wouldve told us if they’ve broken uo_

_except for the fact that they literally have NO OBLIGATION TO AT ALL???_

_I like to imagine Timothy and Connor cuddling in their room together, scrolling through twitter and laughing at our stupid comments. Maybe they’re constantly trying to dodge Tim’s brothers so they stay at Kent’s place, sharing stupid inside jokes, laughing, just really enjoying eachother’s company. Safe. Happy. Healthy._

_imagine living in metropolis, where the only billionaire you get is like. fucking. Lex Luthor. bleh._

_*They Don’t Even Have Ethical Billionaires*_

* * *

“Have you managed to get in contact with Oracle?”

“No. I haven’t been able to get in contact with _anybody._ ”

Tim nods, slowly levers himself upright, tentatively placing a hand to his side. He hadn’t been expecting any change, not really. It’s been two hours since the kryptonite walls had come down and all contact with the others had been cut off. But you never do know with Barbara, and he’s positive that she’s doing everything in her power to get past the signal blocker, or whatever the hell these guys were using. 

Kon looks at him, face caught in eerie shadows from the red flashing lights. The alarms are still oppressivily loud, which Tim finds stupid. Everyone already knows that intruders are in the building. They’re just annoying, at this point. 

_Focus,_ he thinks, and slides off the lab table to his feet, tentatively placing weight on the leg with the painfully swollen calf and hissing when it throbs. He supposes he should just count himself lucky that he only pulled a muscle, there, instead of something much worse.

He supposes he should count himself lucky that Kon managed to shield him from the majority of the blast.

Stupid mercinaries. Stupid enclosed hallways with nowhere to run. Stupid fucking _grenades._

Kon edges closer. There’s a frown on his face. Hesitations. “Are you sure you should be standi-”

“I’m _fine.”_

The words are harsh. Too harsh. Kon hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s not his fault.

(It’s all Tim’s fault.)

 _Grow a fucking backbone,_ he thinks, _grow a fucking backbone-_

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Are you okay.” He doesn’t look at Superboy as he asks, instead focusing on putting the top half of his costume on. There’s a jagged hole in it from where the shrapnel had pierced him, but at least the giant hole that had been in _him_ is now closed up. The fact that it’s still screaming at him every time he moves is entirely irrelevant. 

He breathes through the pain and tries to focus. Focus on ways of getting out. Focus on pushing down all the building emotions in his chest, in his lungs. Focus on stilling his shaking hands and focus on listening to Kon’s answer.

“Well,” Conner says, “I’m trapped in a building surrounded by walls made of my _literal_ greatest weakness. But, you know. I’m hanging in there.” A pause. “I’m worried about the others. About Superman.”

Tim winces. Kryptonite barricades could not be fun for the man of steel, especially considering it sounds like he had been shot before the comns had gone down. He should reassure Kon. He should tell him everything is going to be okay.

“Blackbat is with him,” is what comes out instead. Tim has never been good at making promises he knows he can’t necessarily keep. Besides, if anyone could be trusted to rescue Clark...

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Stilted, stilted. Everything is so fucking stilted. Everything aches. He did this. He ruined that easy, gentle thing that used to be between them. He ruined everything.

And now they’re stuck inside a building surrounded by men with guns, one of them slowly being poisoned by the walls and one of them injured enough to be pretty useless in a fight. They’ve got no way of contacting the outside world, and they’re no closer to figuring out who the hell did this. 

Fuck.

He hopes the others are okay. 

_Fuck._

“What are we going to do?” Kon sounds despondent and angry, plopping onto the floor and resting his forehead on his knees. The kryptonite must be getting to him, to have him sitting down when they’re in this situation instead of rearing at the doors with some sort of ridiculous battlecry.

Red Robin flexes his fingers. It’s the question of the hour.

“First… we gotta get the message out. Get in contact with the others. There must be some sort of communication room around here, somewhere-”

“And the fifty something men surrounding us with frucking _kryptonite bullets!?”_

“I- stop shouting _at me,_ I know they’re a problem, okay?”

“I wasn’t shouting at you!”

“It sure sounded like it!”

They glare at each other. The stupid alarms keep blaring and his whole body is a throbbing mess of pain. Huffing, he turns around and rubs roughly at his eyes over his mask, resists the urge to breathe into the palms of his hands, resists the urge to panic. Guilt coils up in his throat and he ignores, ignores it.

Compartmentalizes. 

_Focuses._

Okay, what can he do?

_Take stock of the situation. What do you know?_

Tim looks around. The barricades at the door are still holding, thick heavy metal, but that will only last for as long as the assholes outside forget about the option of blowing the fucking thing open.

They’re in some sort of lab. He remembers, blearily, directing Kon into the room while half conscious, the other boy carrying him at a dead sprint with a lot more effort than it usually takes. 

Cabinets line the far wall, and there’s a truly massive freezer in one corner alongside a fair amount of random equipment Tim can’t quite justify using the mental energy to recall the name for. 

There are vents. For emergencies, probably. Definitely too small for people, but...

Tim squints at them.

“Rob?”

He doesn’t flinch when he realizes Kon is standing right next to him, but it’s a close thing. Instead he inhales and exhales roughly.

“I think I know how we’re getting out of here.”


	30. *W h a t   t h e   f u c k  R i c h a r d ?*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters keep getting longer XD  
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Injuries, Police Mentions, High Stress Situations

Really, it’s simple chemistry. 

Sure, Tim is used to making knockout gas in the batcave with Bruce supervising, and  _ sure,  _ the lab they’re in doesn’t exactly have everything he precisely needs to follow the recipe exactly, so he has to improvise a bit, as if baking cookies with only half the right ingredients, but-

But his final creation should be nonlethal. And it should work.

It has to work. 

It’s a higher tense situation than Red Robin usually prefers to operate in when dealing with potentially dangerous chemicals. He keeps a rebreather between his lips and keeps his attention focused on his work, hands steady and careful even as they quickly go through the motions. Behind him, Kon works on barricading the door, and there is a lot more grunting and wheezing than either one of them is used to.

He doesn’t sound so good. Tim needs to get him out of this fucking poisonous building, and  _ fast.  _

(Dick would insist he needs to get  _ himself  _ out of the building fast. His abdomen throbs hot and painful, and his calf feels like he’s dragging around a fucking bear trap. The ringing in his ears hasn’t stopped since the explosion.)

Finally, though,  _ finally,  _ it’s done.

Kon helps him seal off all the vents except one- mostly because Tim’s body isn’t really up to… _ walking, _ right now- and then he sets up a homemade diffuser with his homemade knockout gas in the last vent, quickly closing off that one too. 

The deal of it is this: they’re trapped in an enclosed building, walls shuttered into place on all sides. Everyone inside, however, is still breathing, which means that some sort of ventilation system must be in use. In turn, this means that all the different rooms must be receiving some sort of airflow.

Airflow they’ve just contaminated with a DIY version of Batman’s particular brand of emergency knockout gas.

The pissed off mercenaries outside aren’t wearing any masks.

It takes a few minutes. 

Red Robin and Surboy, the highly trained and highly dangerous heroes they are, huddle exhaustedly in the far corner. It’s really terrible timing, but Tim’s brain is sending signals for a fucking _ nap _ of all things, slipping dangerously into that numbed haze territory. He needs to snap out of it, needs to  _ focus,  _ because apathy to everything and anything could get him killed.

It could get Conner killed. The thought keeps him from sliding too far, and instead he keeps his eyes on the door. 

They wait. Two minutes. Five.

At some point, someone must have figured out exactly what was going on, because there had been a mad scramble, a fever pitch of noise, on the other side. Eventually, though, the banging and the yelling and everything drops into silence, leaving only the shrill alarm and flashing lights in its place. 

Kon glances at him, lips quirking. He has a rebreather of his own on, inhaling and exhaling slowly, but he jerks his head towards the pile of cabinets as if to say  _ I suppose I’m gonna have to unbarricade the door now. _

Tim blinks at him, blinks, curls his fingers into fists. He wants to say _ “Stop offering me kindnesses I won’t get to keep when you leave me,”  _ but the words can’t come out. He doesn’t think they would even if there hadn’t been metal in his mouth. Instead, he offers a jerky nod, and slowly works on getting himself upright while Superboy starts dealing with the mountain of cabinets and lab tables. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way Conner hesitates, reaching out to help him up before apparently thinking better of it.

His arms tremble, supporting his weight on the wall, sense of balance utterly shot. He fucking  _ hates _ explosives.

Tim grits his teeth and focuses on the way his breath sounds hollow in his own ears, reverberating through the rebreather. The clarity of the echo grounds him. 

Shoving aside the pain probably isn’t smart, but it’s not like they have a lot of choice. 

Soon enough, they’re stepping outside into the hall.

It’s fucking  _ creepy.  _

The alarms have yet to stop- and  _ gods  _ does Tim have a headache of all headaches from that inane shrieking- and the lights continue to flash like a red disco party from hell. The door, from this side of the hallway, has several deep dents and more than a couple of bullet holes. It’s clear by the warped hinges that he and Kon we’re cutting the fine line of escape incredibly close.

All around them, scattered in various positions of disarray, are the armed men who had been so close to breaking into their hideyhole. They look like puppets with their strings cut.

_ So. Fucking. Creepy.  _

They shuffle quickly along, Kon keeping his arm underneath Tim’s shoulders, keeping him from settling too much weight on his bad leg. Superboy has started to sweat in earnest, now, eyes a bit glazed, but he keeps doggedly on. Tim keeps himself between the Kryptonian and the kryptonite wall, and keeps doggedly on with him. Whenever they run across a splayed figure on the ground, they deftly step over them and keep going. 

Talking isn’t an option, what with the knockout gas in the air. He’s left alone with his thoughts, and they spiral in a dizzying spectacle as he guides them through the building with a series of grunts and pointed fingers, leading slowly upwards. Blearily, he realizes that it must be Friday by now.

Something tells him he’s not going to make Dick’s two o’clock meet-up. It’s weird to feel guilty about it while in the midst of a life threatening operation. 

Unsteady step by unsteady step, they walk deeper into the building.

* * *

_ it me. future Mrs. Grayson <3 <3 <3 _

_ I will never ever understand how your mind works _

_ no <3 you won’t <3 _

_ Isn’t he dating somebody??? _

_ HE IS!?!?!? _

_ *W h a t t h e f u c k , R i c h a r d ?* _

_ why was i not informed of this?? omfg _

_ I’m just gonna take a step back from all this and fall into a coma don’t mind me _

_ This is so ironic i literally Just Saw Him today oh my gods- _

_ pics or ot didn’t happen _

_ What kind of Newb do you think i am of course i tool pics _

_ the boi drinking a milkshake _ _ ,  _ _ the boi smiling at a baby _ _ ,  _ _ the boi checking his phone and frowning _ _ ,  _ _ the boi and that ASS _

_ THAT LAST ONE THOOOOOO _

_ Oh my gods ya’ll are so gross you don’t even TRY to hide the blatant hypersexualization you put on people like the waynes.  _

_ but….and here me out here…. he hot… _

_ Friends… if you’re going to make art of Damian Wayne… for the love of everything good an holy please do NOT whitewash him… it’s gross :/ _

_ sometimes a family can be a dumbass billionaire his adopted brood, and i think that’s beautiful _

_ When i need to cry i think about all the time Brucie brings up Jason Todd in his interviews, making jokes and telling stories. I think of all the times that he devotes charities and buildings and organizations to his dead son’s name. Like. Jason is never forgotten in this family, he’s brought up so much it’s as if he’s still alive, still here with us, and it’s so sweet and so sad. T.T _

_ Daily Reminder that Timothy Drake Wayne is Beautiful <3 <3 <3 _

_ you’re right and you should Say It _

_ *me, looking at tim* he is just.. a little boi,,, smol _

_ Shout out to Conner Kent for being my bi-awakening!! XD _

_ Can someone please FEED TIM like seriously he looks so small and skinny, like a good wind can knock him over what the fuck _

_ i was watching duke’s videos on youtube (again) and look. LOOK. You can see TimCon cuddling and watching a movie in the background for like three seconds,,, my haearttt  _

_ OH GODS YES I HAVE BEEN DEPRIVED OF SWEET SWEET CONTENT _

_ listen listen listen tim drake is WINNING at life… just… he’s got a beautiful boi by his side, a beautiful family to be apart of, he’s rich, got a job, i am so jelly :( _

* * *

Tim really can’t win. 

He blinks at the three armed perps that have just appeared around the corner, see-through gas masks fitted over the entirety of their faces. It provides a perfect viewing of their shocked expressions, apparently surprised at seeing anyone else up and about.

He’d been hoping all the guards would have passed out before reaching any sort of air filtration device. He’s out of smoke bombs, and lost his bostaff ages ago.

_ Shiiiiiiit- _

Working on ingrained instinct, Red Robin shoves Superboy to the side, back round the corner where he’d be safe from any fucking kryptonite bullets. The flush of adrenaline keeps the pain in his side and his calf manageable, and he’s charging and jumping before their presence is fully registered.

The two armed gunmen are the priority: the lady with the knives can be dealt with later. Quickly, quickly, he puts himself between them, hoping neither of them would be willing to shoot and risk hitting their peers in such a narrow space. 

Lashes out with a sharp elbow: the sound of the shattering gasmask brings a grim smirk to his face. He spares a quick moment to jab the man in the gut, right in the chink of the protective padding, and gets him to inhale a sharp breath of gassed air. 

_ Good. _

His own rebreather stays clenched in between his teeth. 

It’s clenched even  _ tighter _ when one of the other man manages to grab him and shove him into the wall, smacking his head smartly into hard cement and sending his brain reeling for one moment, two. He realizes gloved fingers are trying to pry his rebreather from out of his mouth and thrashes, kicking the closest perpetrator harshly in between his legs with his good foot and twisting out of that iron grip. 

It possibly dislocates somebody’s wrist. Tim finds he can’t bring himself to care. 

Inhale sharply on filtered air. Once. Twice.  _ Ow, ow, ow- _

_ Refocus. _

One man down, blinking woozily by the wall. Unfortunately, Red Robin’s little escape maneuver has spat him out on the other side of the remaining two bastards instead of in between them, and the knife lady has rescued her friend’s gun. 

Two black barrels point directly at him.

_ Fuck. _

His muscles tense, ready to jump and tackle the guy standing closest to him, but Kon beats him to it. In the space of a second, she’s been knocked down to the ground with a resounding thump and a loud curse. It’s weird, not hearing Superboy throw quips. It’s weird, how slowly and unsteady his boyfrie- his teammate is moving.  _ Teammate. _

(Tim can’t focus on that right now.)

Using Superboy’s timely take-down as a distraction, he starts on the second guy, only to hiss between his teeth when his side absolutely  _ screams  _ at him: he must have pulled his stitches while escaping their grip.

_ Focus,  _ he thinks,  _ focus,  _ and his calf throbs. 

Kon is grappling with knife lady on the floor, and gunman number one recenters his attention on Tim, raising his weapon once more, awkwardly maneuvering his hurt wrist.

_ Not today, fucker,  _ he thinks, and gets close and personal in the perp’s face. 

The nice thing about being Red Robin is that he never has to pretend to be less capable than he is. Even injured, even exhausted, he  _ knows  _ he can win this.

He disarms the gunman and tosses the firearm down the hallway in about five seconds. Unfortunately, the man takes this as an opportunity to punch Tim square in the face, and his rebreather falls to the ground with a clink.

_ Don’t breathe in,  _ he thinks,  _ don’t breathe in.  _

The guy’s running to get his gun. Tim can’t let that happen.

He leaps forward- his calf and side  _ screaming  _ at him in protest- and hikes himself up on the man’s shoulders, wrapping his thighs around his neck and throwing his bodyweight back. It sends the perp tipping off balance crashing backwards like a low-budget remake of the take of Goliath.

His lungs have also decided to join the protesting movement, pulled tight and painful in his chest. His own body rebelling against him has become the trend of the year.

Quickly, quickly, he rips off gunman number one’s gasmask off, hastily pulling it over his own face. The edges of the thing suction to his skin and pull oddly at the edges of his Red Robin mask, the top of his hairline, but he doesn’t care, greedily swallowing clean air. 

A gunshot sounds. 

A  _ gunshot. _

_ Fuck fuck fuck- _

Kon’s cry of pain makes everything go fucking red.

_ If he’s been hurt- _

He tries to jerk upright, tries to go to him-

A hand tries to grab at his neck. Red Robin dodges on instinct, wincing as it jostles his shrapnel wound, and grabs the guy’s head instead, slamming it smartly against the floor. 

He doesn’t have  _ time  _ for this, Kon could be in  _ danger- _

He staggers to his feet, almost tipping over twice, and peers around for Superboy.  _ Please,  _ he thinks,  _ please- _

It’s a relief to see him rolling away from his own perp, alive and hissing between his teeth.

It’s less relieving when he immediately starts throwing up, dry heaving on smooth cement floors, rebreather clasped in his hand. 

_Fuck._ _Not good._

The torn stitches in his side bleed freely, and the wet slick of blood is more than a little uncomfortable. Tim ignores it, ignores it, shuffles forward unsteadily and places a hand on Kon’s back, shoves the infiltrator back into place the moment it seems there’s no threat of Superboy choking on it. There is, thankfully, no red in the bile.

His head spins, and he blinks rapidly to clear his vision. 

There are shallow cuts all over Kon’s skin, yellowing at the edges. Knife lady had kryptonite in her  _ blades,  _ because of course she did.

Of  _ course  _ she did.

_ Focus. _

First priority is moving Kon away from the exterior wall, where that fucking rock is way too close to him. Second priority is making it so they can talk: he wrangles the second gasmask off the knife guy, switches it out for Conner’s rebreather. “Where are you hurt? The gun- where-?”

“Just,” Kon wheezes, clenches his eyes shut, “I’m okay, just a-  _ fuck-  _ she got me in the thigh- how the hell do you put up with this-”

“A fucking  _ bullet wound to the thigh _ isn’t what I’d call  _ okay- _ ”

“Well I’m not  _ dead,  _ am I?”

Tim pinches his nose. His entire being is just a bunch of pain signals of varying severity. The alarms  _ still  _ haven’t fucking  _ stopped- _

_ Compartmentalize. Focus. _

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Let’s- let’s find somewhere to hide and get patched up. I don’t want any more surprises.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Black spots encroach on his vision when he stands up, and exhaustion sweeps over him in waves. Blood loss, probably. Kon’s arm is warm, pulling him tight to his side, and his thoughts are a little hazy, a little far away. 

They take their first fumbling step.

He’s not sure who’s supporting who, at this point.

_ Fuck. _

* * *

_ okay okay okay so the police have narrowed down the gunfire to three different locations _

_ Metropolis?? Still??? _

_ yuuuuppp there are these buildings and they’ve got these super thick walls built around them. gunfire is coming from inside _

_ Oh shit- any sign of Superman? _

_ no :( _

_ ~~Batman would’ve been there~~ _

_ dude. not the time. _

_ Yeah okay my bad _

_ oh MAN i am CACKLING right now XD look at Lex’s FACE _

_ WHAT!??! WHAT HAPPENED!?!?? _

_ okay so lex is doing an interview right now, right??? Talking, chatting, being his swarmy self, and the host asks him why he isn’t at that gala thing happening tonight and LEX’S FACE does the most ridiculous thing ever and he says he’s...not invited… oh my gods XD _

_ XD XD XD AMAZINGGGG _

_ literally anything that upsets Lex brings me so much joy _

_ lex is such a dramtic bitch _

_ How do superheroes put up with this? I’m just reading about stuff and i feel so tired _

_ Easy. They’re supers. They don’t fucking get tired or hurt because they have fucking  _ _ powers _ __

_ what about batman??? _

_ You kidding me? Batman DEFINITELY has powers _

_ ya u right _

* * *

In a weird reversal of their situation only an hour or so before, Tim is the one with the tweezers, and Kon is the one gripping the edges of the table and hissing between his teeth. The bullet probably could have stayed in if it were anyone else, but the kryptonite makes that an entirely terrible idea for him, personally.

Shallow cuts drip blood down his arms and chest. Tim had shoved a handful of tiny alcoholic wipes at him earlier, grunting at him to start cleaning each knife wound, before he had quickly and quietly turned to his own busted stitches.

No matter how many times he sees it, he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow numb to the sight of someone doing their own sutures. It’s messed up, is what it is.

And he can’t even  _ help,  _ because he can hardly fucking see straight and everything is blurry and horrible and pain, pain, pain-

It will help, he knows, when the bullet comes out. It’s already helping that they’re closer to the interior of the buildings, farther away from those evil fucking green-flecked walls.

But still,  _ still,  _ he feels god awful. He feels fragile and vulnerable in a way that is alien to him, flesh capable of breaking, powers dampened to practically nothing, thigh positively  _ screaming  _ at him. He wonders, wearily, if this is what humans feel like all the time.

(If this is what Tim feels like all the time.)

He should have been there, should have helped. It was pathetic, how he could hardly take out  _ one guy. _

The bullet wound is shallow, thankfully, and Tim gets it out quickly, slipping the damned thing into a tiny little lead case in his belt. The moment that thing is properly enclosed, it feels like he can breathe again.

His gas mask fogs up at the bottom, and he tries to keep steady.

“Are you-” he coughs, chokes on his own spit before clearing his throat. “Are you okay?”

Tim blinks at him, blinks, seeming to have trouble processing, and then gives a tiny, tiny nod. He turns back to his calf, which is swollen as all hell and looking much worse than what it was before. There isn’t much either one of them can do about it now.

Instinctively, Kon reaches back to his comn, trying to reach out for help, for  _ anybody.  _ All he gets is a whole lot of nothing, and it feels more crushing than it has any right to be. It makes him, inexplicitly, suddenly really miss Smallville, the quiet of the farm, Ma and Pa’s smiling faces.

Instead they’re in a murder building, surrounded by collapsed men, knockout gas, and who knows how many leftover enemies.

Red Robin must see his face, must see the exhaustion hiding there, or maybe that creeping sense of hopelessness. His hand, momentarily freed from the glove, reaches out for Conner’s own, only to flutter back and away.

Tim clears his throat, hunches his shoulders. “Ready to go?”

Kon breathes steady. His thigh is a mass of pain and the rest of his body isn’t doing so hot, either.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, let’s go.”

They hobble to their feet and creep out of their hiding place, ready to try and find the communication center once more.

This time, they’re much more careful going round corners.

* * *

_ excited to see you today kiddo <3 _

_ just gotta finish work and then i’ll start driving over _

_ i’m thinking of driving my bike, but if you wanna come by car we can do that too _

_ let me know okay? _

_ i’m free! yes! _

_ omw _

_ what do you want for dinner tonight? _

_ hey! _

_ i’m outside the manor :) _

_ you ready to go? _

_ tim? _

_ tiiiiiiiim _

_ tim _

_ tim _

_ tim _

_ tim _

_ tim _

_ tim  _

_ tim _

_ [MISSED CALL 2:15] _

_ alright, i’m coming to you okay? maybe we can steal some of alfred’s cookies for the road :) _

* * *

“Oh,  _ thank fuck-” _

It took them an hour of shuffling and hiding, but they found it. 

It’s a radio room, an almost control tower set up inside what seems to some sort of computer lab. In the far corner, a collection of computers that must at least be a century old have been swept and discarded into a far corner. If Tim had been younger, he would have totally scavenged them for parts.

As is, his gaze sweeps right over them to their communication setup on the desk-

And the two men who are sitting at the table. They’re also dressed in full tactical gear, masks over their faces, and Tim sort of wants to strangle them if only because he is  _ so damn tired  _ and does  _ not  _ want to be dealing with this right now.

There’s a tap on his hand, and Tim blinks, blinks. Kon looks tiredly down at him, at the gloved hand Tim had flung at his face to cover his mouth and is now just sort of resting on top of the gasmask. 

Right.  _ Right. _

Oops.

He sheepishly lowers his hand.

Glances back at the two guys.

How the  _ hell  _ are they going to do this?

They’ve been avoiding confrontation as much as possible, slipping into side rooms and dodging the meager remaining patrols. As far as Tim can tell, there are at least ten people left in the building- possibly more if the mercenaries are smart and have started putting masks on their knocked out members.

If they make the wrong move, these two guys could radio for help, and all those people could come rushing up here. And with both of them incapitated as they are, alongside the unfortunately narrow hallways… it wouldn’t be a pretty fight, that’s for sure. 

It’s a last resort. 

So _ how….? _

He narrows his eyes at the radio room, scowling. Why couldn’t it have been empty? Why couldn’t they catch a fucking  _ break? _

(It’s probably Tim’s fault, in all honesty. Just him and his rotten luck.)

His head hurts. His calf  _ burns,  _ and he shifts to accommodate all his weight on his good leg. 

There has to be a way to manage this.

Why is it so hard to  _ think? _

“Rob-”

Kon’s voice is hardly above a whisper. He catches Tim’s eye and then quietly jerks his head towards the breaker box tucked away in the corner of the hallway. 

Huh. Maybe Tim  _ does  _ have a concussion. That is a surprisingly obvious solution to their problem.

He nods, and Kon stumbles to his feet, creeps down the hallway, and starts fiddling with wires and switches. Tim keeps an eye on the two men still in the room, and when Superboy gives him the signal he braces himself.

The lights go out, and there are groans inside the room.

Tim slips inside, knowing Conner will be right behind him, three batarangs clenched in his fist. Without any power, the whole hallway has gone pitch dark. Luckily, the night vision turns on in his mask automatically.

It’s just the right amount of advantage he needs, and in five minutes they have two unconscious perps dressed up in their own zip ties, the power back on, and control over the radio room.

* * *

**_GUNFIRE IN DOWNTOWN METROPOLIS CONTINUES_ **

**_WHERE IS SUPERMAN?_ **

**_POLICE REPORT: WHAT WE KNOW_ **

**_CHEMICAL ANALYSIS REVEALS TRACE SAMPLES OF KRYPTONITE_ **

**_CARFORD MASTER: “GALA WILL CONTINUE AS SCHEDULED”_ **

**_CIVILIAN SAFETY MEASURES IMPLEMENTED_ **

**_METROPOLIS: A TURN FOR THE WORSE!?_ **

* * *

The stuff they’re using to keep comns down and their line secure are impressive, Tim has to admit. They’re impressive enough that Tim, in his addled brain state, doesn’t think he could crack into and get a direct message out to Oracle.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

All he has to do is start broadcasting the signal outside of the chosen prerequisites. Babs is like a bloodhound: she’ll come sniffing pretty fast, and figure her way in even faster. Give her an inch, and she’ll take a mile. 

Sure enough, within minutes she’s broken through, her voice coming tinny over the speakers.  _ “This is Beta team, checking in on the West side-” _

Kon looks confused, but Tim doesn’t even blink at it. She must know the groups composing the hired thugs, and their check-in routines. It’s better to play it safe than to be compromised early.

The relief at hearing a friendly voice just about bowls him over. He leans closer to the little radio.

“Oracle!”

_ “Red Robin! Thank god- you all vanished off my radar and these assholes actually know what they’re doing when it comes to keeping me out. Are you okay? Is Superboy with you?” _

Shit, there was a part of him that had been hoping the others had escaped unscathed, that they hadn’t had to put up with the kryptonite walls. Cass must be alone somewhere with an entirely useless Superman, working exhaustively to keep both of them safe.

“Superboy’s with me. We’re- we’re managing. They have a lot of kryptonite. And a lot of men.”

_ “I know- I started hacking into Lex’s accounts as soon as I heard the news.” _

Kon, sitting next to him, leans forward with a frown tugging at his features. The image is only a little distorted by the mask. “Is he the one behind this, then?”

_ “No. Not fully, at least. The accounts show that he’s gotten an influx of money recently, probably paying for the kryptonite and the hired mercenaries, but I don’t think he’s the mastermind behind it. This started in Gotham, I’m sure of it.….besides, this operation doesn’t have enough flair to be Luthor, anyways.” _

It’s true. 

It also means, though, that they’re no closer to figuring this out than when they started.

_ Dammit. _

Tim wants to rub at his eyes, but to do that he’d have to remove his mask. Both masks. Instead, he settles for blinking and digging his fingers into his thighs.

“Have you managed to get in contact with the others?”

_ “No, not yet.” _

There’s a stale pause in the air, after that admittance. Tim worries his lip. “Now that you’re in the system,” he asks, only a little tentatively, “can you do it? Can you reach them? Maybe lift the barriers?”

_ “Way ahead of you, kiddo. Give me ten minutes. Oracle out.” _

The silence, after the fast paced exchange, is almost overbearing. Tim sits back in his chair and turns around to keep watch. He’s been up for almost twenty-eight hours, at this point, and hasn’t eaten in almost as long.

His whole body aches and sings with a pulsing sort of pain. 

To distract himself, he surveys the room.

They’ve locked the doors and done a quick runthrough to check for traps or cameras. It was one of the first things they did, before they even tried to reach Barbara. Barring the comn setup and discarded computers, however, there really isn’t much of anything.

Except-

Except there’s a corkboard, on the far wall by the entryway. It’s got a hell of a lot of papers pinned into place. Papers with miniscule little print on them, lists of chemicals and metals, numbers of dollars spent, amounts purchased.

Tim remembers, suddenly, jarringly, that the whole reason they’re on this mission in the first place is to stop a bomber. 

_ Fuck. _

He stands up, limps over to the wall.

Looks. Really  _ looks.  _ What does he know about bombs? What are the different kinds? How are they made?

_ What do you know? What do you know? _

Tim runs calculations inside his head, traces his fingers over lines of incriminating evidence. There’s something here, waiting, and he needs to figure it out.

He’s running out of time.

Before he knows it, there is a sudden burst of static in his ear, his near-forgotten comn bursting into life. 

“This is Oracle, everybody, please make your way to the closest exit immediately: I’ve figured out how to raise the walls.”

Superboy whoops, a bit too loud while still in enemy territory, and everyone starts checking in over the line. Tim feels the relief of hearing his family alive second hand as his mind whirs into life, still staring at the corkboard.

Duke laughs over the line, sounding exhausted, and Cass grunts out that Superman is unconscious, and Bruce is asking if everyone is okay, _is everyone_ _okay-_

“Red Robin and I are upright, Bats-” Kon is saying, and Tim can hardly hear him.

_ What do you know? _

He knows that this is an ingredient list to making bombs. Big ones.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

“Rob, let’s get out of here. It’s time to go.”

The building begins to shake as the kryptonite walls recede into their hidden lead casings.

“Give me a second, give me a second-”

His gloved fingers tug at his hair, until white sparks explode and fade into red and then black.

Bombs. According to these receipts they have enough materials to make explosives galore, enough to make the original destruction of Gotham look like a fun appetizer. A  _ fuckton  _ of bombs.

And they’re not here. They’re not  _ here. _ He and Kon must have walked the entire building and not seen anything like it, and he  _ knows  _ one of the others would have mentioned seeing this amount of explosives by now.

So where the hell are they?

“Red? We gotta get out of here: a patrol could stop by any second.”

Kon is behind him, voice hesitant, tugging at his cape, his elbow. It’s distracting, and he grunts and pulls away.

“I’m trying to  _ think-” _

So many fucking explosives. Who is the perpetrator? What does he know about them?

Someone rich. They paid off  _ Lex Luthor.  _ These materials don’t come cheap and it doesn’t look like they were illegally bought: they would have popped up on Bruce’s radar if these sort of things were travelling through the black market.

Someone with  _ access,  _ then. 

“Robin, hey, hey-”

He waves Kon off.

Someone smart. Whoever this asshole was, they wanted chaos. They wanted as many people on the bridges as possible, before they blew, and they made the highway inaccessible to ensure it. They made a distraction, the first time: the Arkham breakout couldn’t have been a coincidence, and it left the resident vigilantes preoccupied. 

“What are you thinking, Red? Let’s  _ go.” _

The words seem so far away

_ Focus, focus, focus.  _ Past the exhaustion, past the hurt, past everything. There’s a puzzle here and he’s so close to figuring it out. 

He just needs to  _ think.  _

Last time, he was too slow. People got hurt. People got  _ killed. _ Not this time. 

_ What do you know? What do you know? _

“Red Robin-”

“Stop  _ distracting  _ me-”

Wait.

Distractions. Last time, what happened last time?

The bridges still blew, but not before they started to be cleared off, not before Tim had figured it out and issued a warning. The Bats were occupied, but they still prevented a lot of chaos and loss. 

Distractions. 

Shit.

“This is a distraction.” He whirls around, prods at Superboy’s chest. “This is a distraction, the guy  _ wanted  _ us to be in Metropolis, out of the way. Gotham’s probably set to blow any minute now-”

“What are you- oh, oh _ fuck.” _

Fuck indeed.

He jabs at his comn.

“B, Gotham’s set to blow. You need to get back there  _ now  _ and start evacuating people, start finding and disarming bombs.”

_ “Where.”  _ It already sounds like Batman has started running. He doesn’t ask how Tim knows.

“I- I don’t know. High density areas. Places of cultural significance, maybe?”

No response, but he knows he’s been heard.

“Red, what do you need me to do?”

Superboy stands behind him. He looks exhausted and wounded and sick, even as the green tinge to his skin slowly fades. If everything was normal, he’d probably be floating right now, wouldn’t even realize he’s doing it, that he lifts into the air when he’s nervous and bracing himself for something. 

But Kon’s hurt. His feet stay planted.

His eyes, though-

His eyes are wide and focused and clear for the first time in ages, and Tim looks at them and feels a bit more steady.

He breathes.

“I need you to start taking people back to Gotham: you’re faster than the jet, and once you get outside you should start healing, so I don’t think-.”

“Got it. And then?”

“Start looking for bombs.”

A nod, and Kon reaches out to him, presumably to take him back first, but he steps out of the way. His cape swings at his calves. The anxious ball in the back of his neck thrums.

“Not me. The others. Whoever’s the mastermind behind this, they’re probably actually in Metropolis, and they probably aren’t planning on sticking around long afterwards.”

“By yourself? I don’t know if that’s such a good idea-”

Kon’s hands are on his shoulders. He can’t remember when this happened. 

Tim breathes hollow. 

“I need you to trust me, okay? We don’t- we don’t have time for this.”

Trust. There hasn’t been a lot of trust between them recently, and he knows that it’s mostly his fault. He knows that to ask for it, here, in this shaky in-between moment, is a lot.

But he’s asking.

And Kon looks at him, something in his expression a little sad and a little lost, and before Tim quite knows what’s happening Superboy has leaned down and knocks their foreheads together, through the gasmasks. 

“I always trust you, Red.”

He starts running down the hallway, feet pounding across the cement, slowly picking up speed. Already, the lack of kryptonite is helping. 

Tim swallows dry, swallows filtered air. The echo of it doesn’t quite manage to ground him as steady as Kon had, but it’s enough.

It has to be enough.

“O,” he says into the comns, “help me find this bastard?”

_ “Of course. There’s a particular commlink that’s been activated every few hours or so, originating outside of the buildings. Tracking coordinates now…” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIVE MORE CHAPTERS TO GO BOOOOOIIIIISSSSSSS
> 
> who can guess what happens next O.O


	31. *deep inhale* i’ll kill you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so long, oh my gods *sweat drop*  
> Hope you all enjoyed!  
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Injuries, Attempted Kidnapping, Inappropriate Language to a Minor, Bombs, Homophobic Language

When Tim is six years old, his mom shows him how to make mac and cheese. 

It’s easy, all things considered. Even though the packaging is stylish and full of cheerful promotions on how gourmet and organic the product is, it’s still boxed macaroni with a packet of powdered flavoring. Paying an extra two dollars for a slightly fancier brand does nothing to create a fancier meal in the end.

Still, Janet takes the box out and puts it on the counter, showing him how to use the measuring cups and how to turn the stove top on. Tim stands on a stepstool in order to see the top of the oven, and watches with rapt focus as she takes out butter and milk.

They wait for the water to boil in the saucepan, and to pass the time he carefully, carefully talks about how he’s received all A’s in his classes, peaking hopefully up at her. A couple of months ago, when his parents had been in Cairo, she had mentioned being proud about a good grade over one of their weekly email exchanges: apparently the teacher had messaged, singing his praises. 

He’s been extra careful to get good grades ever since. 

She hasn’t said anything more about it, yet. But maybe, _maybe,_ if he just lets her _know-_

His mom gets that pinched bored expression on her face, though, and he quickly snaps his mouth shut. He doesn’t want this to end, the press of her thigh against his arm, her breathing a quiet background to bubbling water, her assessing gaze when he carefully pours the pasta in and doesn’t spill anything at _all._

Tim peaks up at her, hopeful.

Janet clicks her nails against the marble.

“You’re father and I have important business down in Indonesia, and the nanny says she can’t stop by on Saturdays.”

Bubbling macaroni on the stove, and his mom jerks her chin, gestures at him to start stirring. He does it carefully, keeping his focus on her voice.

“You’re a smart boy,” she continues, “and I _know_ you wouldn’t want to interrupt our work when you’re perfectly capable of caring for yourself… Does this all make sense, Timothy? You understand why we need you to be the man of the house, just one day a week?”

He almost tips off his stool, with how enthusiastically he nods. 

“Yeah, mom. I understand. I’ll be good.”

She runs her fingers through his hair in reward, and he preens at the touch, pressing into it as much as he can.

“Good. There are several boxes in the pantry, for Saturdays, and of course you may always help yourself to cereal and the fruit basket....”

Another round of nods, and Janet offers a wane smile as she washes her hands briskly, wiping them clean on a towel. She leaves behind a singular bowl of mac and cheese on the table.

There are few things in this world more terrible than having quiet hopes crushed before you quite realize you’ve been holding onto them. Tim, six years old and so, so stupid, had thought that, for some reason, making food together meant eating together.

It doesn’t. 

Tim eats alone. This won’t be the first time.

(It won’t be the last, either.)

* * *

Lois’ phone rings with an unknown number, and she frowns at it. On one hand, she was just about to get into a bath. On the other hand, she’s an investigative journalist, and she knows better than to ignore a potential tip.

(On the third, imaginary hand, Clark and Conner went on a mission hours ago and haven’t gotten in touch once, which is mildly concerning, even if they are kryptonians.)

She picks up the phone.

_“Lois. This is Oracle.”_

Not good.

“Hi, O,” she greets, leaning over to pull the plug in the bath. “Is everything alright?”

_“Working on it. I need your help.”_

She has always appreciated this about Barbara: the girl has always been good at getting straight to the point. 

“How so?”

_“Media blackout. You might have seen the news about those buildings in uptown Metropolis, about how nobody’s been able to get in or out. I need the news to keep circulating those stories, even when that changes.”_

Lois finishes changing into some clothes suited for work on the front lines of whatever hell storm she’s about to throw herself into, grabs her keys, her phone charger, and a water bottle, and exits her home at a brisk pace.

“How come? I can’t mitigate anything without a solid reason.”

_“Is the potential catastrophe of Gotham being blown sky high solid enough? We have an unknown perpetrator with a detonator on hand, and until they’re caught we can’t risk anything getting loose to the public. If they get an inkling that something’s gone wrong...”_

Lois purses her lips. “Yeah,” she murmurs, and climbs into her car, “that might work. I assume you’re keeping things locked tight on your end?”

She shifts the car into drive and leaves the apartment complex behind. If she goes a couple of miles over the speed limit, that’s nobody’s business but her own.

_“As airtight as I can make it. I’ll keep you updated on the situation.”_

“Please do.”

* * *

_“Are you sure you’ll be alright?”_

Dick’s voice comes quiet and only a little breathy, probably running to the next location on the probability map Barbara has made of Gotham. So far, they’ve found five bombs and managed to disable three of them. There are bomb squads combing through the city, _quietly,_ and Tim knows that Kon is acting like a bloodhound with superspeed, picking through allocated areas and ferrying whatever Bat is available to a newly discovered bombsite. 

He has never been so jealous of advanced healing in his _life._

As is, Tim had limped his way out of the gassed building and only just managed to avoid the swarming police officers. No helpful genetics can suddenly remove the shrapnel wound from his side, nor the seriously pulled muscle in his calf, nor the mild concussion, nor the dozens of minor cuts scattered across his frame…

Actually, it might be better _not_ to list all of his injuries. It certainly isn’t helping him feel any better.

“I’ll be fine. Oracle triangulated the radio signal to be at Carford Master’s gala, and someone needs to check it out. Besides-” a bitter laugh escapes from him- “it’s not like I’d be much help in Gotham right now.”

_“Red, if you’re hurt-”_

“I’m _fine.”_

 _Dammit._ He closes his eyes, runs his tongue over his teeth. He needs sleep. 

He needs to _get it together._

“Sorry. For snapping.”

 _“You’re forgiven.”_ There’s a moment of hesitation in Dick’s voice, as if he wants to say something and decides better of it. Instead, he murmurs, _“Let us know if you need anything, okay?”_

“Okay.”

He won’t probably- what they’re doing is too important to get distracted- but if it makes Dick feel better…

_Breathe,_ he thinks, _focus,_ and that’s just what he does.

The safehouse is just a pitstop, a quick shower to get rid of the grime, a bit of first aid for the worse of the pains, and a careful appliance of makeup to hide the bruising around his cheek and temple and, well, everywhere, really. He pulls on a suit- it hurts way more than it should have any right to- and twenty minutes after he arrived he’s back out again, on his way to a party.

While his friends and family are desperately trying to save Gotham city, he’s been getting a makeover. Fucking figures.

Still, he catches a limo to Carford’s gala, gets out of the car while ignoring his throbbing leg and screaming abdomen, and starts to walk. By the time he’s made it to the red carpet and the snapping of the paparazzi, his limp has almost smoothed out, and his smile could be described as something more than a pained grimace.

He realizes, at the influx of shouting and screaming and camera flashes, that he’s going to be in the news tomorrow, showing up at a gala like this after the family previously rescinded the invitation. He realizes that this is so much more overwhelming, now, than it was when he was on his meds. What was once a mild buzz of annoyance and anxiety is now full blown paranoia and exhaustion. If he has to stand in this hailstorm of greedy media vultures for a minute longer, he’s going to start shredding his skin with a cheese grater.

 _Calm down,_ he thinks, and the self hatred really has upped the ante, hasn’t it? _Calm down. You’re better than this. You have to be better than this._

And then-

_What would mom think if she saw you now?_

Mom would be disgusted. There’s a slick slide of that familiar crushed feeling slipping its way into his muscles, under his bones, the one he’d get whenever she was around to be disappointed. Attention is too fucking much but it’s also just-

Nothing good comes out of it, nothing, and every time he thinks he’s learned his lesson he falls for the same mistake all over again.

(He thinks he stopped caring about her opinion when he was nine. He thinks he never stopped wanting her to love him. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ )

_Grow a fucking backbone. Grow a fucking backbone._

Tim smiles. Cameras flash.

His dad tried, at the end. They were strangers trying out costumes of familiarity but his mom was dead and his dad had tried, maybe, and Tim was trying to forgive him, maybe, and then Dad was dead, too.

(The same mistake, the same mistake, anything good is gonna slip out of his fucking useless hands and he never, ever learns.)

 _Shut up,_ he thinks. _Shut up shut up shut up-_

Tim enters the building, feels like a drowned man just heaved out of the water. He should scope the area, look for clues. Look for the potential mass murderer hiding in this crowd of rich socialites. His family is risking their lives out there. Kon is risking his life out there. This is the time to compartmentalize. To focus. 

He breathes, breathes. 

Swallows around the lump in his throat, the growing nausea.

 _You need to focus,_ he thinks, and his heart palpitates in his chest. _You need to concentrate,_ he thinks, and sweat gathers in his palms.

Eyes are turning to look at him and Tim smiles, smiles. It feels like wax on his face. If he were Red Robin, right now, he thinks he could handle this. But he’s not. He’s just Tim Drake.And Tim Drake-

 _For once in your life,_ he thinks, _be good for something. Grow a fucking backbone and be worthy of_ something, _anything, fuck, useless, useless, useless-_

He slips inside the bathroom, pushes down the toilet lid, and sits on it, pulls his legs up and doesn’t even care that it hurts because he just can’t be _seen,_ and has a panic attack right on the seat. It’s a shaking, trembling thing, one clammy hand over his mouth and nose and the other tugging at his hair. 

Perfectly silent. Just the way he was taught to be.

* * *

_OH MY GODDSSSSSSS LOOK AT MY SON LOOK AT HIM HE LOOKS SO HANDSOME_

_do you think the rest of the waynes are on their way? do you think connor is on his way!?_

_I think they would have arrived together if that was the case :/_

_dammit_

_Okay but seriously the AUDACITY of this boi- rejecting an invitation and just straight up showing up anyway??? Im so proud_

_Fuck it *ships TimCon again*_

_i live in constant tears because i will never be able to attend a gala with teh waynes and this is a Big Sad_

_Do you think??? Tim was in metropolis??? To visit Conner?????_

_conner lives in smallville_

_IT’S CLOSE ENOUGH_

_look me in the eye and tell me TimCon isn’t the cutest celebrity couple you ever did saw_

_Remember that time Tim and Conner went to a gala together and kent was wearing that fucking SUIT with those EARINGS and we all died from how hot it was and then the VERY NEXT DAY paparazzi caught him in a leather jacket and hot pink sunglasses and we ALSO died from the hot???_

_Get you a boi who can do both_

_*HE HAS THE RANGE DARLING*_

_i hate how everybody is just automatically assuming they’re back together again literally only because timothy vaguely showed in the same geographic area as conner like literally that’s it. makes no fucking sense_

_He’s so hot?? How is he so hot??_

_*deep inhale* i’ll kill you_

_What?? Another person to block?? On MY dashboard??? It’s more likely than you think_

_drake straight up be like “Move, I’m Gay” and waltzes straight on into that gala like he owns the place. damn._

_Is straight really the right word then??_

_oh my gods XD_

_*claps* Dick *claps* Grayson *claps* is *claps* the *claps* is *claps* the *claps* best *claps* Wayne *claps_

_Nobody *claps* Cares *claps*_

_If one more person calls Tim gay imma murdur someone :3_

_[hey]_

_[you know how i live in gotham right?]_

_[yesss?]_

_[well, something weird’s going on…]_

* * *

Tim drags himself out from the bathroom fifteen minutes later. 

He’s exhausted. His head pounds. There’s a tingling at the base of his neck that has yet to dissipate, and his body has not taken kindly to being crammed up in a bathroom stall for however many consecutive minutes. 

His body can go fuck itself. If it’s going to go and have a panic attack in the middle of a mission, it can deal with the consequences. No one had died while he had been… distracted, he had checked, but-

But they could have. They could have. 

The gala comes into bleary view, music and chatter, and he blinks, blinks. It feels a bit like the time he had had the flu and his parents had dragged him out to an event anyways, complete with trying to throw up as quietly as possible and utter sluggishness.

 _Eat and drink,_ his brain chimes, and it sounds a lot like Dick, _you need to replenish, so eat and drink._

Tim goes to the layout of snacks in the far corner, and after he’s consumed three cheese cucumber sandwiches and three glasses of orange juice, he has to admit that he does feel a bit better. A little less shaky. It might even be worth the all-consuming guilt of taking even _more_ time for himself, rather than focusing on the mission.

He tries to focus, now.

It’s a crowded room of people, jam-packed full of rich socialites and waiters and more than a few journalists. He’s looking for someone rich- which rules out the last two categories- and someone _smart._

Someone with a fucking motive to blow Gotham sky high. Someone from Gotham.

This has to be personal, right?

Some of the faces he sees are from Metropolis’ upper class. He crosses them off, weaving through the crowds, dodging the media. Occasionally, because he’s not an idiot and knows doing anything else will make him incredibly suspicious, he stops to chat with people, inane conversations that slip off his tongue from a long memorized script.

It’s easy to dismiss people as _not_ his culprit. But in a room so full of people, all moving and shuffling around, it’s difficult to find the one person who does fit. The person who’s carrying the trigger that will blow up his city, with Kon in it, with his family in it. All it would take is one news station to run with the story, one clueless idiot to start posting online, one guard to break through to their boss’ radio and let them know what’s happening. If the guy behind all this realizes his distraction failed, that Gotham’s heroes have escaped and are dismantling bombs, it’s game over.

Which is why he has to figure this out as soon as possible. Which is why he has to figure this out _now._

_Where are you? Where are you?_

The desperation clamors up in his throat. Tim shoves it down, shoves it down. 

It doesn’t matter. Compartmentalize. _Focus._ If he thinks about all the danger his partner and his family is in at the moment, he’s going to slip into another panic attack, and he can’t manage that right now. They’re _depending_ on him. They’re depending on him, and Tim steps up to meet every last expectation, because that’s what he does.

Or, at least, he tries.

He _tries._

(Tim never, ever learns his lesson.)

* * *

Kon is so fucking tired.

He had nearly fallen out of the sky three times on his way over to pick up the rest of the Bats, and that isn’t even counting all the times he almost crashed into a building before reorienting himself.

Babs directed him to Black Bat and Superman’s building first, and he found them in an alleyway, tucked low. Cass looked half wild, dark hair a knotted mess around her face, blood dripping down her nose and a heavily split lip, each breath dragged from her lungs like it hurt. Clark had been on the ground besides her, unconscious and full of bullet holes, and both of them were covered in their fair share of bandages and grime.

Superboy had heaved his predecessor over his shoulders first, finding it much more difficult than usual. “I’ll be right back,” he had breathed in Cass’s direction, and shot into the air towards the nearest zeta tube.

The people in the watchtower’s med bay were too professional to comment on anything when he dropped off an unconscious kryptonian on them, choosing instead to just wheel him away. Kon had taken a second for himself to watch him go, to catch his breath, to desensitize himself to the feeling of blood on his uniform, and then it was back into the transporter, back to Cass, who sat right where he left her.

Oracle, in his ear, had sounded concerned. “Black Bat, do you need medical assistance?”

Cass had just frowned and pulled herself to her feet, stumbling only a little.

“Take me,” she had said, and only fumbled over her tongue a little, “to the others. Please.”

So Superboy had picked her up and taken her to the others, who were luckily in much better shape. It probably helped, he thinks a little guiltily, that they weren’t paired with someone who became essentially dead weight the minute the walls came slamming down. Duke had taken Cass off his hands, his face pulled into a soft frown, and she had patted his cheek before turning to Batman.

Batman’s face had just pulled into a tighter scowl. “Oracle,” he says, voice dark, “update Red Robin. Superboy, can you carry us?”

And Kon had swallowed, swallowed, shifted awkwardly in mid-air.

“I’ll have to take a couple of trips.”

“It’s still faster than the jet.”

So Superboy hauled Bats from Metropolis to Gotham and didn’t complain, even when his body began to feel hollow and empty and painful. _This might be too much,_ he had though, _so soon after all that kryptonite._

But he ignored that. What other choice does he have?

And now they’re in Gotham, looking for bombs, and trying to keep quiet about it. Oracle has all but hacked every news site in the city to keep the current evacuation on the down low, and he’s been flying from location to location for Batman, searching using his superspeed. Lots of museums, lots of art galleries, lots of malls. Any monument of any significance gets added to the list, of which there are many. 

The list is really, really long. There isn’t a lot of chatter over the comms, just new locations to check and advice on routes for those going on foot or via bike. The stress of it all, the danger, carries loudly. If whoever behinds this decides this is the moment to blow up Gotham city, then there is literally nothing any of them can do about it.

Every last one of them is tired, he thinks, the Bats are just better at hiding it.

Still, Kon sticks to it as best he can. It helps that he can float instead of worrying about putting weight on his thigh. It helps that the only powers he has to use is superspeed and flight, rather than anything else more strenuous.

The amount of explosives in the city keeps ticking upwards. Every time he thinks they’ve found the last one they find another. It sucks that he doesn’t know how to diffuse bombs. That he can’t help _that_ way, the important way. That he can only be transportation.

But he’s doing good at transporting people, he thinks, until suddenly mid flight with Batman in his grip he all but collapses, managing to turn it into a controlled fall onto the closest rooftop. He chokes on stomach bile and then spits it out, throwing up twice onto cement some two feet away from his boyfriend’s dad. 

He’d be embarrassed about it if he didn’t feel so clammy and weak.

It’s surprising, then, when Bruce helps him sit upright, leans him against something that might be a generator, or a water heater, or something. A granola bar gets shoved into his hand, along with a tiny water bottle.

“Eat.”

Kon eats. And drinks. He does not look up from his lap and he’s weirdly grateful when Bruce doesn’t say anything about his shaking fingers. That Bruce doesn’t tell him to hurry up.

Except there are bombs out there. Every minute they sit here is a minute wasted, and so he quickly forces himself to sit up.

The second surprise of the night is when Batman’s gauntlet lands on his shoulder pushing him back down. “You’ve overexerted yourself,” the man states, and Kon doesn’t care _what_ Tim says, there’s nothing sappy about it.

Shrugging feels tiring, but he does it anyway. “There was kryptonite in the walls. It didn’t hit me as hard as Cl- as Superman. But it… still wasn’t fun.

Batman grunts, frown twitching at the corners of his mouth. Then, in a sudden decision, he stands, pulling his grappling hook from his belt. “Sit here and rest. When you feel better, go find Black Bat and bring her back to the cave. She will tell you she is fine, but tell her it’s mandatory. Have Agent A check her over and bring out the sunlamp for you. I expect you to recuperate for at least half an hour.”

Kon frowns, tries to pull himself to his feet and doesn’t quite make it. How many people are in this city, he thinks, how many could die if he doesn’t do this? 

He swallows dry.

“But Batman, the bombs-”

“Will be handled. This is an _order,_ Superboy.”

One blink and another, and the man vanishes with a swish of his cape into the night. Conner blinks after him and then tucks his head on his knees, tries to breathe steady.

He hopes Tim is doing better than he is.

* * *

In the end, Tim doesn’t find the perpetrator.

The perpetrator finds him.

“Timothy Drake-Wayne, what a pleasant surprise!”

Carford Masters is a tall man. Not quite as tall as Bruce, but still rather above average, and his teeth hold the gleam of those that have been recently whitened. His suit is a dark navy blue and he smells like expensive cologne, probably called “Freedom” or something equally ridiculous.

His grip is just the right amount of firm and his greeting is perfectly normal, but there’s something in the corner of his eyes, the tick of his eyebrows, that leaves Tim feeling wary.

Cameras flash. They hold the pose for a moment, and then Masters swings his arm around Tim’s shoulders, pulling him flush to his side and continuing to grin for the gathering reporters. The contact feels like worms are trying to dig into his flesh, and painfully jostles his abdomen. 

“I was _so_ disappointed when your family said you couldn’t make the event,” Carford continues, as if nothing had happened, as if they’re not being watched, “and yet, here you are!”

Tim smiles wanly. Ignores the rising panic of all these fucking eyes focused on him. Ignores the urge to lie down on the floor and take a fucking nap, photographers be damned. Instead, he just inches ever so slightly away, keeps his tone casual as he speaks. “My schedule unexpectedly cleared up, so I figured I should come. Show my support to the cause and whatnot. Sorry for not calling ahead.”

“Absolutely no problem! I’m _always_ happy to welcome the Wayne family into my care.” Belying his words, Masters’ grip on his shoulders tightens just a little bit.

More pictures are taken, and- sensing the conversation’s stopping point- paparazzi begins to clamour for quotes. Carford Masters just waves them off, laughing, citing business talks, and Tim absentmindedly mimics him even as his brain works a mile a minute. 

His eyes scan Carford’s frame, looking for any shapes in the fabric that could possibly be a detonator. His shoulders are still trapped underneath that heavy arm, his nose stuffed full of that cologne. He’s being guided away, guided away from the crowds to a quieter corner.

To “talk.”

Yeah fucking right. 

He should slip away from this. Get out from this grip and back into the crowds. Tim doesn’t have any backup and Masters is being pretty fucking suspicious. He should call Babs and inform her to start digging into the man’s accounts.

But-

But they’re working on borrowed time, and as long as Carford holds the trigger, his loved ones are in danger.

So he lets himself be prodded away, and he looks for a detonator.

“Like what you see, Timothy?”

_What._

Masters wiggled his eyebrows. Tim resists the urge to gag and instead just shrugs, looks around as if admiring the architecture before turning back to his new really fucking _gross_ companion.

“I was just admiring your suit. Where’d you get it from?”

He lets Carford talk his head off about a small village in Turkey with wonderful tailors for exquisite prices, and is a little more careful about his investigation.

Until, eventually, inevitably, they pull to a stop. Masters’ grip tightens almost imperceptibly. 

“Say, Timothy,” the question comes slowly, “can I expect anyone else from your… _remarkable_ family to stop by?”

 _Tell him yes,_ his slim remaining sense of self preservation screams at him, _tell him yes and get his arm off you and back the hell away._ But he just shakes his head. “It’s just me today, I’m afraid, though the rest of the family wanted to come, I assure you.”

They didn’t. Carford’s galas tended to be pretty fucking awful, and usually not for the most reputable charities. But he doesn’t need to know that, and the longer Tim can blow off his ‘utterly oblivious teen’ act, the better. It buys him time to figure out where the fuck the detonator is hiding.

It has to be on him. This man, much like Bruce, seems obsessed with control. So where is it? _Where is it?_

_Oh-_

There’s a slim bulge in the man’s suit jacket, tucked alongside the seams. He’d bet anything that it’s what he’s looking for.

Now he just has to figure out how to get it. 

* * *

Alfred keeps calm. It’s what he does. The world finds itself in chaos and shambles and Alfred keeps steady, an eye in the storm.

“Miss Cassandra, you have _three_ cracked ribs. Whatever madness drove you to stay out there like this? You should have come right home.” 

Alfred gives his best disapproving look. Miss Cassandra looks back with her eyes narrowed and her teeth bared. “I will _help,”_ she hisses back, but doesn’t get off the gurney he’s placed her in.

He makes his face softer, pats her gently on the shoulder. “Yes, and you will be of no help to them if your cracked rib becomes a broken one and you puncture a lung. Now, can you stay here while I help Master Kent?”

She nods stiltedly. Doesn’t look him in the eye.

The boy himself is floating some feet away, looking exhausted and ill in a way that is so very rare for kryptonians. He’s kept quiet since bringing his charge in, but now he looks vaguely nonplussed. 

“Really, Alfie, I’m fine. There’s no need to worry-”

“Hush, I will not hear it. Go lay down on that cot and I’ll be right over. Master Bruce ordered some time under the sun lamp, I presume…” Master Conner’s wide eyes would have been confirmation enough, even if Batman hadn’t called in the order for bedrest some minutes earlier.

And really, _really,_ it’s clear the poor lad needs it. He looks almost as bad as Miss Stephanie had, when she came squinty-eyed and pale to the manor some hours earlier and had insisted on helping. Alfred had had none of it, of course, and had sent her up to bed, but only after much insistence.

One of these days, a member of this family will not be resistant to receiving proper medical care, and that will be a glorious day indeed. He pats Conner on the back and guides him to the medbay.

‘Sun lamp’ is a rather quaint name for the machine Bruce had made for Master Clark, considering they need to put up protective barriers to shield from radiation whenever it’s in use, but it really doesn't matter. Alfred does it in no time at all, and then he’s off to Miss Cassandra with ice, cloth, and food. Then he goes to check in with the boys.

Master Damian is set up with his leg elevated in front of him, knee in a sturdy splint. In a half hour, he’ll need some ice of his own, but for now he quickly runs through a list of potential bomb sites with Master Dick, Miss Harper, and Master Jason, dividing up their search areas and looking for the most effective routes. Cullen, besides him, looks exhausted. They’d woken him up in need of an extra pair of hands, and he’s been managing comms since, patching people through to Oracle. to each other, and to the bomb squads patrolling the city.

As Conner sleeps and Cass sullenly munches through some sandwiches, Cullen frowns, types away at his keyboard. “O,” he says, “Can you get in contact with Red Robin? He’s not responding…”

* * *

Tim gets distracted.

It’s a stupid mistake, but he’s exhausted and in pain and he’s been running on basically empty for _hours_ now. He gets sucked into his thoughts, his planning and his back up plans, and the next thing he knows they’re tucked away in a little alcove and Carford is murmuring, “Do you know the real secret to success, my young friend?”

Tim shrugs. Answers absentmindedly in the way he’s been doing for the past ten minutes. “Bruce always says good ethics and hard work. I also think societal privilege has something to do with it.”

If he pretends to trip, and brings the man down with him, he might just be able to steal the detonator while they both scramble to their feet… or if there’s some sort of distraction…

The grip on his arm suddenly becomes steel. Tim lets himself yelp, because it seems like the thing to do, and then tries to ineffectively jerk back, jerk away.

Masters holds on.

“You’re _wrong,”_ he hisses, and there’s something cold and calculated in his eye, something just this side of wild, “The key to success is _attention,_ Timothy. Always is, always has been. If you dictate the attention of the world, you dictate success. You dictate _power.”_

 _They’re not the same thing,_ Tim wants to say, but instead he pitches his voice higher, starts trying to get away in a way that would be feasible for ickle Timothy Drake-Wayne, shoving jerkily at Carford’s side.

“Mr. Masters, you’re _hurting_ me, what are you _doing-”_

The man bulldozes right over him.

“Though I suppose you knew that, _don’t you,_ being one of the _Waynes-”_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! _Let me fucking go!”_

He’s roughly jerked forward, and it pulls at his stitches, makes his head spin. This is a kidnapping operation, he realizes, there must be some sort of backdoor exit on this hallway, with men waiting on the other side. Getting kidnapped _really_ isn’t on the agenda for the night, though, so Tim grits his teeth, purposely stumbles, lets his body weight go entirely unsupported and drops right out of Masters’ hands. 

He scrambles back, back, and his calf _screams_ with it. 

Absentmindedly, he weighs the pros and cons of calling for help. Somebody would definitely hear him, this close to the party.

Before he can make any decision, Carford is on him again, digging his forearm into Tim’s neck, slamming his head back onto cold marble. It would be less painful if the man hadn’t been placing practically half his weight on Tim’s shrapnel wound. 

As is, the pain is fucking _blinding._

And he’s not getting in any fucking air.

_Fuck._

Push down the panic. Focus. _Focus._ This is a kidnapping operation, and Carford is smart. He knows that killing Tim at his own gala would not reflect well on him. Besides, it’s surprisingly difficult to properly choke someone to death, so all Tim _really_ needs to worry about is not passing out.

_Focus._

“You’re a fucking attention _whore,_ aren’t you Timothy? You know exactly how much power you hold, had the _audacity_ to come here, to my own event, steal away the attention _again._ It’s all too easy for you. You never had to scramble after it, as I have, never had to-”

There is something ironic about this, Tim thinks. There is something ironic about receiving a monologue on attention when he spent practically his entire childhood bereft of it, aching for an ounce of affection that was never going to come. His parents left him alone for weeks at a time. For _weeks._ A day off for the nanny became a weekend off, and then before he knew it he had the house to himself, the cupboards filled with canned food and a phone number for grocery deliveries left on the counter.

And here’s this man, ranting and raving as if Tim has had it easy. As if he knows him. As if Tim hadn’t spent one half of his life grabbing at scraps of attention and the other half shying away from it, overwhelmed by it, drowning under it. 

Tim is tired. Tim’s _exhausted._

Black spots are encroaching on his vision. He’s not sure if it's from pain or oxygen deprivation. If he were Red Robin, he would be out of this already. If he were Red Robin, Carford would have never gotten a hand on him in the first place.

“I had it all figured out,” Masters is saying, “I had it _all_ figured out. After tonight I would never have to fucking deal with any fucking Waynes ever again. The world would mourn, for sure, but you would be one of many casualties. No one would even blink an eye at another loss, and _I_ would step in, the savior, the hero-”

The words process slower than they should, but when they click into place it sends a cold flush down his spine. If the Waynes are a target, and Carford knew they weren’t planning on going out tonight-

There must be a bomb. At the manor. 

_Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck-_

Alfred is there, and Cullen, and Damian. Cass might be there, too, if the others finally managed to convince her to slow down, and who knows who else. Tim needs to call them. He needs to call them _now-_

He struggles, all care about keeping his secret identity safe flying out the window, but he’s been held down for too long, he’s sluggish, he can hardly _move-_

Carford’s free hand moves into the lapel of his jacket, and Tim’s blurry vision manages to catch him reaching for the detonator, catching how he tears off the protective cap.

The soft green light on the detonator turns orange, the bombs are prepped to blow, and Masters’ thumb is centimeters from the trigger.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck-_

* * *

Miles away, forty-three non sabotaged explosives suddenly leave their dormant state and enter an armed one, a nearly silent cacophony of sound.

Swearing filters over the comms.

There are echoes, panicked, to finish cutting wires if you can or just fucking _run_ if you can’t.

Kon wakes up to the sound of yelling, turns off the sun lamp, and spends a disoriented moment taking in the scene in front of him. 

Only a moment, because then he’s lifting himself into the air, ready to speed into the city and try to evacuate as many people as he can.

But there’s only one of him, and Gotham is huge. He can’t save everyone. 

He can’t.

They’re running out of time.

* * *

Tim’s hand jerks up, and he jabs two fingers right into Carford’s eyes.

It is the stupidest, and oldest, trick in the book.

The man yells, hands going up to his eyes, and Tim rolls away, coughing roughly, heaving in gasps. He wants to start a petition for bad guys to stop choking him out, because it keeps happening and it _sucks._

Focus. He needs to focus. 

There’s the sound of feet coming closer, probably after hearing Master’s yelp, and Tim scrambles for the fallen detonator, grabbing at it and slamming the protective covering closed. In a rather mundane turn of events, the orange turns back green, and Tim skids the thing all the way down the hall. He’s not really thinking straight, all he knows is he just needs to get it away, away away-

Carefully, he pushes himself to his feet, bracing himself on the wall. His side is one throbbing mass of fiery torment, and his calf almost slides out from under him when he tries to put weight on it. 

His gaze slides without his permission, sideways and then up, to the corner. If he doesn’t get a fucking hold of himself and regulate his breathing, he’s going to pass the fuck out. 

Tim blinks. Blinks. The ceiling is painted with overlapping vines. A camera is tucked away in the corner, red light steadily blinking.

_Huh._

The encroaching swell of people gets closer. They’ll be here any moment now. 

A hand grabs at him, and he’s being dragged again, Carford’s breathing harsh and pissed off, trying to get him around a corner, out the door, something: Tim doesn’t know.

He just knows he can’t let it happen. 

_“I’m going to kill you, kid,”_ Masters hisses in his ear, “I’m going to kill you and then I’m going to kill your fucking fag boyfriend and-”

Whatever else he’s going to say is lost when Tim squirms his way free. The first of the reporters and guests come around the corner right when he throws a fist right at Carford Master’s stupid moronic face.

The whole time he thinks, _Fuck you, fuck you, enjoy the attention asshole and Fuck. You._

Almost instinctively, he manages to make the punch sloppy, make his form purposefully wrong so that when his fist makes contact, the man’s nose breaks and starts gushing blood but his own fingers swell up red and angry with white hot pain, too. He recoils, carefully tripping over his own feet and cradling his injured hand close, backing away and only half faking the way he’s stumbling, stumbling. 

There are tons of gasps. All eyes on Tim. On the man he’s just punched. Tim’s going to be in the news cycle for _weeks._

 _Better make this look good, Drake,_ he thinks, the thought grim.

And then he promptly makes himself burst into tears.

Cameras flash. People stare. Tim pretends not to notice them,

“Leave me _alone,”_ he hiccups, and curls into himself, tries to look smaller than he really is. His baby face is a weapon of mass destruction and he’s not above using it. It helps that, for most people, coming across a furious looking man and a sobbing, injured teenager is gonna lead to certain assumptions.

Desirable response achieved. An older couple steps forward and start taking charge of the situation, asking people to keep watch on Mr. Masters, getting people to call the police, call the ambulance-

Ushering Tim away. He stops to pick up the detonator, but otherwise?

He lets it happen. When reporters try to follow, the woman turns to scold them, to give an account, or something. Tim’s concussion might actually have gotten worse, he thinks, because he feels rather dizzy, and it’s hard to follow along, especially now that most of the adrenaline is leaving him. The dentonor is safe in his hands and will soon be put into protective custody, and it means that his family is safe, and it means Tim can relax.

Or, at least, as much as Tim ever relaxes when out in public. With paparazzi trying to snap pictures and socialites shooting glances his way.

The woman’s husband sits with him at the snack table, being very careful not to touch him after the first time Tim flinches away from his hands, and pours him some water. But he just shakes his head at the offer, scrambling in his pocket for his phone. The words are blurry when he looks at the screen. 

“Who’re you trying to call, son?” the old man asks, gently taking his phone off him.

There are a lot of people Tim could name here. Probably _should_ name here. Bruce, for one, or maybe Dick. Hell, even Babs or Alfred would be a good choice.

But all of them are Gotham, and won’t be able to reasonably get here in their civilian identities for at least a few hours, and Tim is tired.

He thinks of roots, of houses and what makes them homes. He thinks of journeys, and how a part of them will always be the destination. He thinks of people, and how they are so often kinder than he thinks they will be, and how sometimes they are just as terrible as the world has taught him to expect. There are lessons here imprinted in his bones, maybe, that trust in gentle things will always get torn away from him, that his hands are not made to hold things as soft as happiness.

He thinks.

His hand aches.

Tim never learns.

“I wanna call my boyfriend,” he says, and if it comes out a little choked up then it’s entirely the performance and not at all because every inch of him is just an exhausted, injured mess. 

The older man hums, scrolls through his contacts.

Tim gets to call his boyfriend.

And yeah, he’s kind of cheating, because he’s calling Superboy’s _comm_ , but the man doesn’t need to know that. Either way, Kon picks up right away.

_“Oh my gods, are you okay? Oracle said you hadn’t checked in and the bombs all suddenly armed themselves and I was so fucking worried- ”_

Despite himself, he smiles. He curls slightly away from the older man to give himself the illusion of privacy, resists the urge to close his eyes and sleep. It’s probably the concussion talking. Or the blood loss. Or his exhaustion from that panic attack earlier. Or even just some plain old depressive vibes. 

Reasons to nap: his body contains multitudes.

“I’m okay, everything’s okay,” he says, and his throat protests at even the thought of talking. “Can you come pick me up? Please?”

“What? Oh- yeah, sure, I’ll be right there.”

The dial tone sounds. Tim quickly lowers his phone and texts Babs using muscle memory, telling her to check the Manor over and that the detonator is in his hands, even if it wasn’t in so many words.

And then he sits. And he waits. He hopes Kon realizes he can’t actually show up in under a minute.

Luck is on his side, it seems, because Conner manages to wait an entire twenty minutes before showing up. In that time, Tim’s given his fumbling statement to the police, handed over the detonator as evidence and told them to investigate the security feeds. He’s also been checked over by a paramedic, who _thankfully_ hadn’t noticed the hasty stitches in his side but _had_ insisted on giving him a shock blanket after wrapping his fingers and icing his leg.

It’s sort of a relief, honestly, when the Kent family pick-up truck screeches to a halt outside the barricade. Tim manages to get himself to his feet by the time Kon bullies his way through the crowds, and he’s not sure who leans into the other first but then they’re definitely hugging.

Kon smells like Gotham and sweat and grime, but he’s also standing and appearing functional. His arms are warm around Tim’s shoulders, and they feel safe rather than overwhelming or confining, and after everything it would be entirely too easy to pass right the fuck out in this careful embrace.

It has been a _very_ long forty something hours.

“C’mon,” Conner murmurs, “let’s go crash at Clark’s place. I’m tired.”

What a coincidence. So is Tim.

* * *

It’s Oracle who shares the news.

Tim’s got the detonator and has made it out safely with Kon heading over now to pick him up. The perpetrator is in custody. There’s a fucking bomb somewhere around the manor, but that’s small fry in comparison to the relief of the news that the situation is under control, that their city can no longer be blown to smithereens without a minute’s warning.

Everyone’s safe and relatively hale and whole. It’s about as good an ending as they can hope for. They still need to shut down all the explosives, but-

But they’ve got time now to do so. It helps that Barbara has all of their locations officially on lock, after that brief alarming stint of them all almost going boom. Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood stay out, handling the situation with the bomb squads, but they send all the kids home.

Duke pulls off his mask and groans, loudly, “I am going to sleep for a fucking _week._ I don’t know how the hell you guys stay up so late.”

Cullen pats him on the back. He doesn’t know, either.

Harper and Cass, across the way, trade looks with one another and then simultaneously stick out their tongues. It sparks a round of laughter, too big and too bright for such a little thing, but fed easily by that pooling sense of relief and exhaustion. Alfred watches it all fondly, pointedly reminding Damian to head straight to bed after icing his knee, and then pick up his own set of tools for bomb disarmament.

He’ll never be able to sleep otherwise.

And really, really, it’s just another day for the Waynes.

* * *

They go and crash at Clark’s place. 

There isn’t any talking, not really, not when they’re both still injured and Tim is concussed. But they hobble into the apartment and set themselves up on the couch, taking turns waking each other up for mandatory check in’s. When Lois comes in after hours of media wrangling and visiting her husband in the watchtower’s med bay, she sees them laying there, stretched out on the cushions with the back of Kon’s head lolling on the armrest and Tim’s cheek firmly planted on his chest, their legs tangled at the other end.

Lois rolls her eyes. She turns out the lights.

Classic idiot boys in love. She _knew_ they’d figure themselves out.


	32. a bastard to other bastards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Chapter Warnings

Bruce comes and picks him up in the morning.

It takes a moment for Tim to slide into awareness, for his brain to come back online. Bruce’s hand is warm on his shoulder and Kon is practically his own personal body heater, breathing slow and even underneath his cheek. He remembers, distantly, being woken up several times during the night, the soft buzz of an alarm and Kon patting at his , but otherwise he’s been sleeping like the dead.

Maybe this is what being dead feels like. His whole body is very floaty.

Still, still, Tim manages to lift his head from Conner’s chest, manages to look Bruce in the eye. He blinks at him, and then at the door leading out into the hallway.

“Did you-” He traces his teeth with his tongue, tries to get moisture back into his mouth, coherency back into his words. “Did you just break into Superman’s apartment?”

Bruce blinks back at him. There are deep bags under his eyes and a sallow look to his face that suggests too little sleep, but he appears to be steady and surprisingly uninjured. 

He also looks mildly offended, as if his actions are totally justified and _Tim’s_ being the irrational one.

“Clark won’t mind.”

...Point to Bruce. It’s not like he’s wrong.

Tim lets his forehead flop back down onto his sleeping boyfriend. Murmurs, quietly, without a lot of thought put into it, “Lois might.”

A conceding grunt: point to Tim.

He closes his eyes. He’s tired. He wants to sleep and Kon is _warm._

But he is cruelly denied once more when the hand on his shoulder gives him a little jostle. The ruling council that’s set up shop in his head decides then and there that Bruce is a proper bastard. Like. A _big_ bastard, the biggest, a bastard to other bastards, even.

...this is _‘High On Pain Meds’_ Tim Brain speaking. It does not help that he’s probably still concussed. He should probably not put a lot of merit to his cognitive stance, at the moment. He should probably open his eyes.

After a monumental amount of effort he sort of squints them open, and Bruce is a blurry shape of giant body and small, fond smile. His pseudo dad is a loser. Why is everyone scared of him? He wears _turtlenecks._

“I’m not scared of you,” he tells him. But quietly. Because Kon is still sleeping.

“That’s nice, Tim.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know, Tim.”

A pause. There is early morning traffic outside and beneath him Conner shifts, sighs, and settles back into sleep. If only Tim could be so lucky.

“C’mon, lad,” Bruce whispers, “up and at ‘em. You can sleep in the car.”

“Kon is warm.”

“There are blankets. And we can blast the heater, if you want.”

Tim thinks it over. His brain feels a bit like mush at the moment. Tired, hazy mush.

“...Fine. But you’re gonna have to help me up. I can’t feel my bones.”

“I can do that,” comes the response, sounding vaguely amused, and then Bruce’s giant hands are pulling at his shoulders, shifting him carefully upright and off the couch. His abdomen gives a mild throb in protest somewhere through the pleasant diffusion of pain meds, and his calf says _no thank you_ when he tries to put weight on it, but Bruce is practically carrying him, anyways, so does it really matter?

No, the council in his brain decides, it does not.

They leave Kon on the couch and lock the door behind him. In the elevator, Tim requests Bruce to text Lois and tell her thank you for letting him crash on her couch. And for giving him pain meds when she found him shuffling around her bathroom’s first aid kit at four in the morning.

“I will do that,” says Bruce, in a very stilted dork way, because Bruce is a dork, and then they’re getting into the car.

Tim gets ice for his leg and a blanket to curl up in, and true to form Bruce blasts the heater. He reclines the chair so he can lay down, and it’s not as nice as Kon but he supposes it will do. The radio is on, but he can’t quite make out what’s being said. It could be classical music or a podcast or the news, but right now it’s just jumbled and far away. If he focuses, he’s sure, he could probably make it out, maybe get a look into the world outside the car. .

 _Nope,_ the brain council decides. _Nopenopenope_.

He closes his eyes.

He sleeps.

* * *

**_CARFORD MASTERS ARRESTED ON MULTIPLE CHARGES_ **

**_STILL NO WORD FROM TIMOTHY DRAKE-WAYNE_ **

**_GOTHAM BOMBINGS: CLARITY AT LAST_ **

**_BRUCE WAYNE’S LAWYERS ON THE CASE_ **

**_MASTERS CHARGED FOR MOLESTATION?_ **

**_YOUNG LOVE IN FULL VIEW!_ **

**_LEAKED FOOTAGE CAUSES DEMANDS FOR JUSTICE_ **

**_CONTINUED INVESTIGATIONS INTO MASTERS INDUSTRIES_ **

**_CONNER KENT SPOTTED IN SMALLVILLE_ **

* * *

Lois drops him off at home.

There are reporters camped just outside the property, and their shouting makes Kon’s ears ring, a lingering side effect from the long term kryptonite exposure that’s been bothering him since he woke up. His whole body has been in protest, if he’s going to be honest with himself- headache, aching bones, the whole shebang- it’s just that it’s only now he’s lucid enough to recognize it for what it is.

He ignores it. Makes a point of shoving his glasses higher up on his nose and flicking all the paparazzi off as they drive past. Because in all honesty _fuck them._ Fuck them sideways and over and under. He hopes they choke on spaghetti at an important business meeting. 

Still, it’s a relief once Lois drives past them with liberal use of her horn and more than a few angry mutterings. She looks exhausted, and her day’s just begun. There’s a computer bag tossed in the backseat that he knows was packed in preparation for long hours in the Watchtower med bay, to keep Clark company while he recovers from being shot. 

It won’t take long, compared to human standards, but Conner imagines that for a full kryptonian that much kryptonite exposure really isn’t that great.

(For a part-kryptonian, it isn’t that great, either.)

There’s been an offer for him to come with. Lois had looked at him over a bowl of cereal and made the invitation very clear. He’s welcome to visit the Watchtower, if he wants to.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to see Clark when he’s laid out unconscious and vulnerable and wounded. Kon’s seen enough of his loved ones injured these past couple of days- a part of his brain pings _Tim Tim Tim-_ and he’s tired. He’s _exhausted._ His body throbs in a loud harmony of pain, and even after crashing at Lois’ place last night he can still feel his eyelids drooping.

And maybe it’s a little pathetic of him, but he misses his parents. Pseudo parents. Whatever the hell Ma and Pa count as, these days.

Apparently, they missed him too, because when he comes stumbling out of the car on his bad thigh, they come practically _running_ out of the house. Old, calloused hands are fluttering over his face, his arms, his chest, checking for invisible and not so invisible wounds. Kon lets them, lets them, then all but collapses into their warm embrace when he gets pulled into a three way hug.

 _“We,”_ Martha says, words coming out in the fiercest gentle tone to have ever been, _“were so worried.”_

Kon feels choked from the lump rapidly rising in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

Jon just pulls him closer, hushing him. They stand in the driveway for a long while, Lois staying in the car and on her phone until they finally pull apart. Only then does she slip out, getting two quick hugs in turn, because that’s just how you do things in the Kent family.

They walk inside.

The couch is practically heaven when Kon lies down. Martha, seeing the way he’s collapsed on top of it, tuts and grabs a quilt to throw over his shoulders, goes to set the kettle to boil for a hot water bottle. Lois sits down at the dining table, rests her legs on the seat opposite to her, and Jon offers to make her a cup of tea. Outside, the birds sing in their roosts and the wind whistles cheerily along.

He’s so fucking tired. His ears continue to ring, hyperfocusing on random sounds and amplifying them to painful degrees. Krypto snuffling in his sleep, the press trading anecdotes, a woman in downtown Metropolis scolding her kids: everything is impossibly close and present. 

Kon closes his eyes and presses his fists to the sides of his head, as if that could do anything to block the rest of the world out, and ignores the way his muscles spasm and pull at the movement. He is so, so tired. He hates kryptonite so, so fucking much.

“Ouch,” he murmurs into the armrest, and sympathetic hums fill the room before falling into almost silence. The neighbor is whistling as he makes his bed. A few towns over, someone groans after stubbing their foot. 

A wath of heat presses against the back of his neck. Kon keeps his eyes shut but mouths ‘ _Thank you.’_ Hot water bottles are standard treatment for this rotten poisoned feeling in his bones, a tradition from when Clark was still the only Super about, long before he even existed. In the here and now, he has no clue if they’re actually physically helpful or if it’s all placebo, but he does feel a little better.

Martha squeezes his forearm. He keeps his eyes shut. 

Miles and miles away, Tim’s heartbeat runs at a steady tempo.

Quiet, quiet, quiet, and all the noise that fills it. Jon is settling in with his book, scraping pages and the slide of his jeans against soft cushions. Martha is making brunch, eggs knocking against each other and grains of cinnamon tossed about their glass container. Lois scrolls on her phone, and he can hear the slide of her thumb against the screen.

Later, Lois will vanish from the door with a murmured word in parting and two quick fingers tapping against his wrist. Later, Jon and Martha will take their own turns to visit their wounded son, Clark’s soft smile and their mingled worry and relief. Later, Kon will go out to lie in the sunshine, will absorb that warmth into his skin and feel better for it.

Later.

For now, he stays on this couch and its familiar presses, the gentle loudness that fills it. There is love in this room, and it is its own sort of warmth, and he will take it into himself and feel better for it, too.

* * *

_“Hi, Alfie! I’m sorry if this is a bad time, I know you’ve got a house full of invalids right now-”_

_“Nonsense, my dear boy. I can always make time for you. How may I be of service?”_

_“I- I just have a quick question, actually.”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Well, uh, last Friday, you know how I was looking for Tim in his room?”_

* * *

“Oh my fucking god, Tim, you are so high.” Duke’s breath is warm on his ear from where he’s sort of just… slumped onto his brother’s shoulders. His bones are still firm in their decision to be liquid, if nothing else.

Not that Tim cares. He closes his eyes and digs his forehead deeper into soft sweater.

“Fuck you,” he slurs, because he is one sly motherfucker, and Duke laughs. Behind them both, Bruce slowly packs away medical equipment, seemingly satisfied that Tim is sufficiently patched up and won’t be spontaneously dying from his injuries any time soon. It seems to be the sign needed to start their slow migration out of the cave, because Duke hikes him higher onto his shoulder and begins walking.

One step. Another. Sounds slide together as he focuses on keeping his coordination in check and his bad leg off the ground. He does not like being drugged, out of control, but even that feeling is hard to grasp on to.

The next thing Tim knows, he’s being lowered down into a veritable nest of blankets and pillows in one of the manor’s many living rooms.

“Warden,” Duke is announcing, “I have another prisoner for you.”

Cullen leans over from where he’s sitting on the edge of the couch, eyebrows raised. On the screen, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s _Cinderella_ is playing. On the floor, Cass keeps her eyes closed, head leaned back as Stephanie clumsily braids her hair. There are no phones or laptops in sight and he wonders, vaguely, if that is for his benefit.

The thought slips away.

He misses Kon.

That thought slips away, too.

“Here’s the rules,” Cullen says, and Tim blinks at him, “If you need something, tell me and I’ll get it for you. If I see you unnecessarily straining yourself, I will make Harper sit on you, injuries permitting. Three strikes, and I call Alfred. _Capiche?”_

Tim blinks, blinks.

Harper, from where she’s flung herself upside down on the armchair, shoots him with finger guns. “He’s not making an empty threat. I _will_ do it. No hesitations. Don’t test me.”

Cullen nods. His strict demeanor would be more startling if Tim couldn’t see the smile gathering at the corners of his eyes. In a conspiratorial whisper, the younger boy leans closer to Duke, “I’ve hired her as the muscle of this operation.”

He gets a serious nod in turn.

“A valid choice.”

And then Duke smiles, laughing, and then they’re all tittering at the stupid bit. Everyone looks- and sounds- exhausted, and Tim’s whole body is only just now starting to come down from the drugs pumped into his system, but-

But Bruce is calling from the kitchen, asking what people want for snacks, and Alfred’s voice is echoing from farther off, offering to make hot chocolate, and the blanket pile is warm and the movie is playing softly on the screen, a perfect level of background noise. 

For the first time in a long time, Tim doesn’t feel like utter shit. Part of this is because his drugged up brain is dancing around all the bad stuff and yelling _parkour!_ as it does it, but-

But also, _also,_ his family is _safe._ And maybe it’s just the pain meds talking, but it seems that Kon doesn’t hate him.

It seems like things might turn out okay.

The realization lingers comfortingly in his mind, even as he lets himself dip back into sleep.

* * *

_hey bruce_

_quick question_

_when did tim last refill his meds?_

_He said he went a few weeks ago with Alfred. Why do you ask?_

** _[Dick Grayson is typing…]_ **


	33. Gay baby uwu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the peeps who gave me inspiration for the social media bits in this chapter <3 <3 <3  
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Anxiety, Depression, Panic Attack

_ kon _

_ k on _

_ are you ok _

_ Yes tim _

_ I am okay _

_ As i have told you the last seven times you asked? _

_ good _

_ cause you like _

_ deseerve to be happy _

_ bc your so nice _

_ youer _

_ youre _

_ you’re _

_ Good job _

_ ty _

_ harpr is stealing my phone :( _

_ It’s probably for the best _

_ We’ll talk when you feel better okay? _

_ ok _

_ bye _

* * *

_ It’s been a week how we doing people? Still off our rockers?? _

_ do you even have to ask _

_ No <3 _

_ masters is a fucking lunatic what the fuCK _

_ WHAT DID I TELL YOU! WHAT! DID! I! TELL! YOU!! I FUCKING KNEW THEY WEREN’T BROKEN UP FUCK YOU ALL _

_ I hope carford rots in jail for a thousand years. I hope he dies. I hope he steps on a lego every day for the rest of his life _

_ check out Kent's fucking truck oh my god what a hick _

_ it’s the family truck- look at the logo on the side.  _

_ Oh my gods can you even imagine that conversation though? Hey Mom! Don’t mind me! Gonna use the truck to pick up my super hot super rich boyfriend who just punched a murderer :3 _

_ XD _

_ i have never gone through such a rollercoaster of an evening in all the days of my life like. i cannot deal. first there was that whole reveal of the gotham bombings and then that video release??? of masters of all people being so creepy and then!! then there was the timcon hug?? and i?? someone call an ambulance i’m dying of feels T.T _

_ PROTECT TIMOTHY 2K21 _

_ that hug has added fourty three years to my life.  _

_ I know a ton of people are being swept up by the drama of it all but please remember to be respectful to all the people who lost folks during the gotham bombings a few months back _

_ do you know what time is it? _

_ Adventure time? _

_ No _

_ SUMMERTIME _

_ No :) _

_ I give in what time is it _

_ murder time :) _

_...what _

_ time for murder :) _

_ op what do you mean? _

_ who dared to touch my precious son will be murder :)) _

_ op? _

_ :))))) _

_ i know it’s fucking awful what happened but tim looked Fine in That Suit _

_ AAAAAHHHH _

_ Listen to meeeee… he’s fucking biiiii…. _

_ CARFORD MASTERS I’M GONNA PULL OUT YOUR SPINE AND EAT IT LIKE SPHAGETTI _

_ well that’s terrifying have a nice day _

_ I hope people are finding closure now that Masters has been caught <3 _

_ Is timothy okay? Has anyone gotten any news from him? _

_ not yet. brucie gave a quick update but otherwise silent _

_ I hope he’s okay :( _

_ im gonna go stab myself in the eyes so i don’t have to deal with people going uwu over a legitimate attempted murder plot or attempted assault like fuck you all for not treating tim like an actual human being _

_ look at this face he is BabY _

_ Something that’s always been so curious to me is when people are like? I HATE TIMCON or like IT’S A HOAX because nobody cares. nobody. what what are thet expecting to get out of this. A trophy?? _

_ look if some weird older man was trying to take me to an isolated place i would simply kick him in the nuts and run. no offense to tim but i’m different _

_ I lost my apartment in the bombings and i’m expecting full payback fuckwad _

_ #FuckCarfordMasters _

_ kent just straight up serving LOOKS and he wasn’t even dressed to the nines what the hell _

_ Reasons why I’m a proud Timothy Drake Wayne stan (and why you should be too): _

  * _Gay baby uwu_



  * _Hot_


  * Broke a mass murderer’s (more like a terrorist maybe?) nose



__

_ hey friends. this is just a reminder: if you see any wayne fam, don’t approach them asking about what happened. don’t dig into their personal lives. be polite. be cordial. i know it’s so so tempting but give them their space. the waynes have always been super nice about posing for pictures, signing stuff, talking to people- and this is one little thing we can do to be kind in return _

_ YES! Y E S!! TREAT THEM LIKE HUMAN BEINGS PLEASE!! _

_ And for the love of everything holy if you see Tim Drake don’t fucking bring up the likely traumatic experience and shove it in his face _

_ ↑↑↑ what they said _

__

* * *

__

Tim doesn’t even know how this happened.

One second he’s alone, the next there’s a small group of people talking to him. And it’s fine, it’s  _ fine,  _ really, it’s not like anyone’s being particularly rude or pushy or  _ anything,  _ it’s just Tim is-

It’s just  _ Tim. _

He’s surrounded and he’s cornered and fuck  _ everything  _ but this isn’t something he asked for. He had literally been just perusing the small selection of nonfiction books, and suddenly someone had been asking for a picture and then someone else had done the same and now his quiet corner of the world had become a bustling one. Maybe, he thinks, there’s something about him that sends out signals to people’s brains, telling them he’s totally chill with people coming up to talk with him with no invitation at all.

If there is, he needs to find it and exterminate it. It’s times like these he misses being the relatively anonymous Wayne the most. 

He can’t remember why exactly he’s in here. 

Nothing looks familiar.

_ Blame it on the drugs,  _ he thinks, and hunches his shoulders a little higher. Being high out of his mind had been fine while it lasted, but Alfred has been slowly weaning him off them and so now he’s just a bit… disoriented. Maybe. 

The house had been too big and too full and too loud. It had been easy, really, to slip out. Sure, his body hadn’t really  _ liked  _ climbing out the third floor window and sliding down a tree, but did that really matter? Did that really, _ really  _ matter?

No, Tim had decided, it did not.

It just has the unfortunate side effects of Tim not being sure exactly as to what his precise location is.

Fuck.

“We just wanted to ask, how have you been? Are you holding up okay?”

_ Fuck. _

There’s no phone in his pocket to pull up a GPS on, because Harper had ‘confiscated’ it from him for ‘his own good’ after finding out he's been texting Kon on it while high. Reflecting on this, it was probably a good decision at the time, but now it means Tim is very, very lost.

And tired. 

He’s so fucking tired.

They’re looking at him, looking for an answer, and whatever their question was it’s gotten garbled in the transmission. 

“I’m alright,” he says, slowly, and kinda feels like he’s dying inside. “A little bruised, but I’ve been taking it easy, ya know?”

It gets a smile. Tim smiles weekly back. 

_ Go away now,  _ his brain sings. Surely,  _ surely,  _ this is enough social interaction for a day. A week. A year.

Anxiety tingles at the base of his spine.

He never  _ asked  _ for this. 

Slowly, he glances around again. For a clue as to where the hell he is. For an escape route. The bookstore he’s in is run down and gloomily lit. There’s a few other customers mingling around, chatting with one another or peering at the shelves or distracted by their phones. There’s a faded poster on a corkboard advertising a restaurant he knows to be in Bludhaven.

So maybe he’s in Bludhaven?

That sounds right. There was… a bus. Out of the manor and onto the bus, as per usual when he needs to get out. He had _wanted_ out: Wayne Manor had been too big, too loud, too much. Right. _And_ Bruce has been acting weirdly for days, hovering at doorways or staring _really_ intently when he thinks Tim isn’t looking.

This does not spark joy.

So now he’s in Bludhaven.

Right.

Tim rubs at his brow and pinches his nose. It feels like his thoughts have decided to take up waltzing, spinning and spiraling in incessant circles.

A hand touches his shoulder.

Instinctively, he jerks back. Blinks, blinks, blinks.

“Tim? Are you sure you’re alright?”

He blinks at the gaggle of people, their buzzing excitement giving way to a concerned wariness, all eyes on him. Every second he stands there the anxious, toxic hunk of emotions clogs up his throat more. This is where there should be reassurances and smiles and smooth slide out of the shop, and instead he’s just standing there, wordless.

_ Some hero,  _ he thinks,  _ some hero,  _ and fumbles.

All those fucking  _ eyes. _

It makes him almost wish that they were being assholes, just so that he’d have an excuse to run away. Instead, all their doing wrong is looking at him, getting into his space, and-

And-

_ Don’t panic. Don’t you fucking  _ dare  _ panic. _

This definitely feels like he’s starting to panic. 

_ Fuck. _

He gives a tight little nod and wonders how much it would take to get the floor swallow him whole. How much it would take for these people to get the message that he wants to be alone. How much it would take for them to realize he doesn’t want to be fucking  _ touched- _

“Tim!”

He blinks.

And then Dick is there, sunshine smile and easy handling. “There you are,” he’s saying, supremely casual, as if everything is totally normal, “I was looking for you!”

Tim blinks at him, and then carefully matches his smile.

He feels supremely out of depth.

But his older brother has it all well in hand. In minutes, the crowd has pictures, a fun anecdote story about the Waynes, and a fun story to tell their friends. In minutes, Dick is ushering him out the front door of the shop and tugging the hood of his jacket up to help hide his face. They start walking down the street.

“How did you find me?”

Dick glances down at him, unimpressed.

“You’re injured and Bruce is paranoid.”

_ What? _

“Huh?”

“Tim. There are like. Three different trackers sewn into your clothes right now.”

_ Oh. _

“Oh.”

“Uhuh. Now the  _ real  _ question is what you’re doing all the way out here in Bludhaven. While _ injured.” _

Shrugging, because honestly he’s not entirely sure why he’s all the way out here either, Tim lets his eyes wander away from Dick and across the street. Two girls are holding hands and one of them is laughing at what the other said. They seem happy.

He misses that. The being happy thing. Or, at least, being happy without considerable effort thing.

He wishes he had his phone so he could text Kon.

His head kinda hurts. His leg  _ definitely  _ hurts. 

Dick sighs, wraps his hands around Tim’s shoulders. This touch, at least, is a welcome one.

“C’mon kiddo. Let’s go back to the apartment. I’ll call Bruce.”

* * *

_ Tim be like NAH SISTER. YOU AIN’T GETTING ME TO NO SECONDARY LOCATION _

_ Who has that picture taken last week that’s of batman but it’s just. blob. I need to add it to my collection for r e a s o n s _

_ Sending my thoughts and prayers to my Gotham friends. Hope you get some closure <3 _

_ oh shit i just watched the video that was so scary tim looked so scared they must have been so happy to have had each other but that was so so scary  _

_ Point for the eye stab maneuver drake but negative 1000 points for that punch. your form was just picture perfect in its wrongness _

_ How Not To Throw A Punch by Timothy Drake-Wayne XD _

_ Exactly XD _

_ get you a man who holds you the way conner kent holds tim drake _

_ Why did he even do it? WHY? Like what was there to gain from blowing up gotham and killing all those people i don’t understand _

_ THE HUUUUUUGGGGG _

_ there isn’t much that makes me feel violent but watching that video fully convinced me to become a murderer for like. three hours. maybe more. _

_ they’re still together they’re still together they’re still toget _

_ How is it fair that i look like a flaming garbage can after a whole morning of effort and tim can get into an actual physical fight and come out looking like an actual legitimate model?? _

_ <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 _

* * *

“You want something to eat?

“No.”

Dick’s head pops into his frame of view, furrowed brows and concerned features. Tim sticks his tongue out at him and rolls over, burying his cheek into the couch cushions. Hello ugly upholstery, old friend.

His brain feels like flaming garbage fire. Anxious, pained, exhausted garbage fire that smells like rotting soup.

“I’m not hungry. Really.”

“Tim…”

“I’m  _ fine.  _ I’m just- I’m tired.”

It falls quiet, and Tim can  _ feel  _ the weight of his brother’s gaze on the back of his head. Stubbornly, he ignores it as best as he can. He is absolutely fine and fuck anyone who says otherwise.

Unfortunately for him, Dick is the most stubborn of them all.

“Were they bothering you? The fans? In the shop?”

He shakes his head. A hand slides through his hair, soft fingers and soft touches. Unfamiliar, no matter how many times Dick does it.

“Is something else bothering you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

_ Shut up,  _ he thinks, and it isn’t fair, because Dick is trying to be kind, but he thinks it anyway.  _ Shut up, shut up, shut up. _

This isn’t something he wants, these kindnesses, this closeness. Or, it’s not something he deserves.

How could he  _ ever  _ deserve this?

“Tim-” Dick starts, very gently, very softly, and it’s just enough to make Tim lose his fucking mind.

He starts yelling.

Loudly.

Too loud, really. Much too loud. His entire childhood was about learning how to keep himself small and quiet so as to not be underfoot, not this. Never  _ this.  _ He feels like he’s cracking at the seams. He feels like he’s losing his mind. This is the time to step back, step away, shut his fucking mouth and find somewhere where he can deal with all these emotions alone.

The noise level doesn’t decrease.

If his mother could see him now, she would be scandalized enough to actually possibly slap him. His father would have for sure. 

The thought of it just makes him louder, because fuck them, fuck  _ them  _ and fuck Cardford Masters and his slimy fucking hands and fuck the press for being invasive vultures and fuck Bruce and his worried glances and fuck his siblings for caring so much and fuck  _ Tim  _ for not being able to handle basic fucking human interaction-

He’s gonna fucking  _ die  _ from all the anger clogging his lungs.

There’s a disconnect between his brain and his body, or maybe just between him and the rest of existence, because the next thing he knows he’s on the ground and curled up in Dick’s lap.

“-and everybody keeps  _ looking at me and  _ I hate it, I hate _ this _ , I hate this so fucking much-”

“Hey, Tim, hey kiddo, hey, hey, hey-”

Tim shakes his head, shakes his head. He feels like he’s trembling out of his own skin with fury. Dick’s arms are wrapped around him tight, holding him close to his chest, rocking them a little, back and forth, back forth. The curve of his brother’s chin presses softly against his hair.

“You,” his brother is saying, and the words sound like they’re coming through water, “are having a  _ massive  _ panic attack, and I need you to listen to me.”

It’s the voice Dick uses whenever Damian is having one of his meltdowns, he realizes. There’s a familiar cadence to it- up, down, up, down, and slow, slow, slow- that Tim’s only heard before across living rooms or through closed doors. 

And now it’s directed at him.

Fuck.

_ Fuck. _

He wonders if this is how Bart feels all the time. Like he’s  _ vibrating,  _ too fast and too much.

Dick’s shirt scratches at his cheek. They’re still rocking back and forth, with Dick’s voice louder now that he’s stopped screaming so much.

He shouldn’t have been so loud. 

(They’re gonna be mad. They’re gonna leave him alone again.)

_ Shut up shut up shut up- _

Tim’s fine, Tim’s fine, Tim’s fine. 

He’s so fucking pissed at himself and the world and everything ever but he’s  _ fine. _

“I’ve got you,” Dick says, “I’ve got you.”

Exhaustion has started setting in. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead tighter to his brother’s frame, throat raw and skin clammy, heartbeat pulsating in his throat. There’s this lingering expectation that Dick’s going to pull away from him, leave him alone on cheap carpet, but he doesn’t.

It’s almost worse when he doesn’t. Because Dick shouldn’t be here for this. Tim’s falling apart and  _ no one _ should have to see this. This self-destruction. This utter failure.

“We’re going to make it through this.”

* * *

_ the gifs pouring out of this one event alone is enough to sustain me for months. maybe years. _

_ I really love how it was revealed that Carford Masters was basically a fucking supervillain and a creep and the entire fandom is JUST focusing on Tim and his boytoy like wow. Never change fandom. Never change. _

_ oh my gods I go offline for like a WEEK and everything has gone batshit insane what the hell even HAPPENED _

_ update: what the hell??? Masters was the fucking Bomber??? _

_ double update: WHAT THE HELL??? how did that video even get released to the public?? is that even fucking legal?? _

_ triple update: HOLY SHIT THEY'RE STILL TOGETHER _

_ final update: i now know more about what happened and i am still so fucking confused _

_ It’s so easy to see celebrities as larger than life but that video just makes tim really small _

_ people keep talking about that hug picture plastered all over the news but there is so much other Good Content coming from tonight that is being unjustly ignored _

_ These boys!! Aren’t a fucking reality TV show!! This is a legitmately traumatizing thing that has happened to this fucking CHILD and you’re treating it like it’s a new episode of Sherlock!! _

_ right!? it pisses me off so much _

_ I MADE ART _

_ Oh gods i thought i had felt every last thing that that hug could make my shrivelled up soul feel but OP you have succeeded in making me feel even more. Who gave you the fucking RIGHT _

_ they’re just holding eachother so close and i??? my heart??? _

_ It’s so beautiful _

_ Masters is an asshole but he’s also a warning. Eat the fucking rich before they fucking blow us up. We’re not even fucking people to them _

_ (except bruce wayne, right?) _

_ (Except bruce wayne …. but he’s on thin fuCKING ICE) _

_ tim is no longer allowed to cry ever cause it makes my heart hurt _

_ did we ever figure out what the hell was going on downtown metropolis??? _

_ I amconstantly wondering what the hell Conner Kent did to get a wayne to date him and i am even more constantly wondering if he would be willing to give tips _

_ look me in the eye and tell me that these two bois don’t mean the world to eachother look me in the eyes and _

_ fucking carford i shouldve fucking known _

_ Anyone see that post Duke put out? Just like?? Giving all his love and support to tim?? My heart is soft now _

_ conner kent could slam dunk me into a basketball hoop and id probably thank him. i just. his biceps?? _

_ *deep inhale* listen. listen. this is a teenage boy. please stop sexualizing the teenage boy. it’s not suddenly okay just because it’s not a girl _

_ catch the waynes laughing it up in their mansion because their hoax was successful Again cause y'all are Gullible Asses _

* * *

“I’m sorry. For yelling at you.”

_ I’m sorry you have to put up with me. _

Dick has to be sore by now, after sitting so long on the ground with Tim practically in his lap, but he doesn’t comment on it. He just shifts and tugs Tim even closer. The movement tugs at his abdomen but he doesn’t say anything, just letting it happen.

“It’s okay. I forgive you.”

Warm hands. Safe hands. His brother sounds almost as tired as he feels, this bone deep exhaustion, but there isn’t any lingering resentment. The carpet is rough against his heels, where his socks have slipped down. 

They must make quite a sight, sitting here. 

He should stand up. He should lock himself in the bathroom and never come out. He should get out of Dick’s hair.

He should be doing so many things.

But he’s not. Instead, he’s tucked away in his brother’s apartment after  _ another  _ fucking panic attack, feeling like he’s taken all of his flaws and faults and put them on a silver platter. He was raised to be better than this. He should have been able to deal with this on his own. You’d think, after a decade of managing, this would be something he could control.

Control is what got him into this mess in the first place. He had just wanted to feel in control. He just wanted some aspect of control, had thought he would be able to handle it.

And now it’s blown up in his face.

The shame twists at his stomach. 

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this, though. Again.”

Apologies have never helped him before. They didn’t keep his parents home and they didn’t take back the affection he missed out on. Tim learned, growing up, just how easy it was to take his problems and pack them into boxes, neat and tidy and tucked away out of sight and out of mind, just like he was. 

How the fuck else was he supposed to cope? He thinks acknowledging everywhere his life failed him would have torn him to shreds, when he was younger. It was so much easier, so much  _ better,  _ to grab onto every semblance of his life and manage it with surgeon-like precision. To deal with everything he could deal with and avoid everything else.

To deal with everything on his own.

Dick breathes, the soft huff of air warm on his head.

“Kiddo, you are pushing through some ridiculously stressful times while your own brain is working against you. I am  _ happy  _ that you feel safe enough to share your emotions with me, even if they’re bad. There is nothing to apologize for, when it comes to this.”

Tim swallows, swallows. He is so, so fucking tired. When he speaks, it is hardly above a mumble.

“I hate this. So much.”

Dick holds him closer, plants a kiss to his forehead.

“I know. Listen, I’m going to help fix this for you, okay? I’m gonna make this right.”

That seems impossible. The whole situation has spiraled too far out of control for it to be anything less.

But he doesn’t tell Dick he’s wrong.

* * *

_ kon i’m sorry that i haven’t been a good partn _

~~_ kon i’m sorry that i haven’t been a good partn _ ~~

_ kon you are so good and i am really, really _

~~_ kon you are so good and i am really, really _ ~~

_ i don’t know how to tell you what yo _

~~_ i don’t know how to tell you what yo _ ~~

_ i messed up. i really messed up and i want to make it up to you _

~~_ i messed up. i really messed up and i want to make it up to you _ ~~

_ thank you for putting u _

~~_ thank you for putting up with m _ ~~

_ i’m sorry for _

~~_ i’m sorry for _ ~~

_ sorry _

~~_ sorry _ ~~

* * *

_ “Tim.” _

_ “Bruce.” _

He mimics the tone without really thinking about it, and when it catches up to him that his adopted father in no way sounds  _ pleased,  _ the damage is already done.

His shoulders come up to his ears in an instant, and his thoughts are a sudden speal of  _ oh gods oh gods you messed up you did it wrong  _ even as his rational mind is throwing up its hands into the air and declaring it a stupid inner monologue leftover from a stupid childhood that he shouldn’t pay any attention to.

At least, that’s Stephanie’s sensible way of putting it, after a three hour long phone call via Dick’s cellphone.

He knew this was coming. Dick had  _ warned  _ him that this was coming before he had dropped him off at home. But after four days with nothing brought up to the plate, Tim had thought he was home free.

Apparently not.

Carefully, slowly, he sits up, rubs a hand through his greasy hair. Unfortunately, he is no longer on any major kind of pain medication, which means that his abdomen throbs in protest at the motion.

Tim rides it out. It doesn’t matter.

He’s been benched, again, which gives him too much time to think, too much time to sink into his own head and his own poisoned thoughts. There are a thousand things he should be doing- casework, training, spending time with his siblings, figuring things out with Kon- and instead of devout focus on these essential tasks he’s been doing a whole lot of nothing.

Sleeping. Laying in bed. Waiting out bouts of guilt and dread and dissociation. Feeling stressed out about everything. Feeling apathetic about everything. Constant pressing exhaustion and all his notifications off.

(Harper’s returned his phone. He keeps starting apologies and deleting them.)

It’s all just nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

His brain can’t decide whether or not it’s more anxious or depressed, caught in a limbo between the two. It means being incredibly uncaring about the world and himself until the second anyone looks his way or expects anything from him, unto which his constant lying about becomes a source of apprehension. It means sometimes freaking the fuck out in his mind and not being able to convince his stupid body to do a single fucking thing about it.

The mantra plays on repeat in his head. It’s stupid.  _ He’s  _ stupid. He should be better than this. 

But he isn’t. He’s  _ not. _ He fell apart all over Dick, and part of that was that he still wasn’t quite in his right mind but part of it was just him failing to hold up under pressure. And now here he is, he’s been lying curled up on this couch for an hour and at the slightest hint of disapproval from a parental figure a whole bout of anxiety is suddenly  _ magically  _ thrumming up and down his veins. Unicorns and fairies can go shit themselves because  _ nothing  _ beats the sheer sorcery that is Tim’s entire soul going from zero to one hundred in the span of a millisecond.

Who needs rainbows and sparkles when you can have a wonderful sense of all-consuming _ fucking forboding? _

_ Calm down,  _ he thinks,  _ calm down,  _ and it doesn’t help at all. Still, Tim does his best to shove it into neat little boxes of compartmentalization and turns to look Bruce in the eye, wincing guiltily when he notes the half full bottle of pills the man is holding.

_ “Tim.” _

He swallows. Hard. Resists the ridiculous urge to give finger guns.

“....Bruce?”

And he must be giving something away, some narrow twitch to his shoulders or a slight tension to his eyes that expresses the sudden bouts of guilt and anxiety pouring into his soul, because darkened features soften into something gentler, and Bruce sits down next to him.

Tim folds his fingers in his lap, intertwining them into a tight grip that could be a fist if they weren’t so twisted. He ignores the way his nails are digging into his skin, making small white pinpricks, and besides him the older man sighs.

“How long?” 

It’s a question, but it’s a  _ Bruce  _ question, and those almost always sound like he’s making a statement. 

It’s hard to answer either way.

He swallows.

“...Before the original bombings.”

The furrow between Bruce’s eyes is back in full force, and Tim doesn’t shrink into himself only because of years of training. It still feels like a slap to the face, though, and if he clenches his fingers any harder he’s going to make himself bleed.

But the pain is grounding, in a way, so he keeps squeezing.

For a moment, they sit together on the couch. It’s in one of the living rooms in the outskirts of the manor, because dealing with his entire robust family had felt like too much to put up with today, but everybody’s still too jumpy from his  _ last  _ escape for his usual bus routine to fall through..

It lowers the chance of someone walking in on them, but he almost wishes for one of his siblings to come crashing through the doorway, loud and distracting just so he could disappear from this plane of existence. 

No one comes, and it is quiet.

Bruce is doing that little twitchy mouth thing he does when he’s unhappy and worried and doesn’t know how to express it. Tim wants to tell him that he’s  _ fine,  _ but he knows neither one of them will believe it, and either way this whole thing is a long time coming.

The older man is the one to break first.

“Why?”

And Tim breathes. He breathes and he breathes, and he tenses his shoulders and lets it all go. There’s a fire cackling in the hearth and the walls are a muted green, and he’s  _ safe  _ and it’s okay to talk and he just needs to- he just-

He just needs to spit it out. He just needs to _ grow a fucking backbone.  _

That anger, simmering in his gut like spent ashes, flickers back to life.

“I didn’t like them, okay? They made my head slow and they made me sleep too much and I hate it when-”

_ When I’m not in control.  _ It’s a sentiment held strongly throughout practically everyone in the family. Tim bites his lip and breathes harshly through his nose, kidnappings and ruined plans and too much fucking death spinning through his mind. His eyes are watering even as he  _ viciously  _ tries to keep the tears at bay.

He’s tired. He’s spiraling. 

And Bruce, with about all the grace and casualness of a two hundred ton blue whale beached on dry land- _ that is to say, none-  _ slowly wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Why didn’t you tell me? We could have gone back to the clinic and changed them easily enough.”

Tim shrugs, tracing made-up patterns in the carpet with his eyes. His throat is oddly dry.

“I couldn’t- I didn’t want to bother you. It wasn’t a big deal.”

The words come out quieter than he wants them to be. This shouldn’t be so hard. He’s fought gods walking in the form of men, defeated monsters crawling out of Gotham’s darkest underbelly. He’s a  _ hero  _ and yet-

It's easy as Red Robin. The mask between him and the rest of the world. He quips and fights and feels strong, this paralysis that preys on his mind hardly even present.

And yet here he is, his voice collapsing into itself, tumbling down the rabbit hole and only an echo of the volume it should really be. Still, it’s easier to talk like this, when he doesn’t have to look Bruce in the eye. 

His palms sting. His body aches.

“I thought I could handle it. I  _ had _ been handling it. I was doing better. I mean, I wasn’t sleeping enough, but who does in this family? I was  _ managing. _ I didn’t hate myself all the time and I was keeping on top of everything, at least, and I thought, I dunno, that maybe I was fixed, or something. Maybe I didn’t need any pills to function anymore. Maybe I could be okay.”

In his head, his mom screeches for him to lift his chin up, speak up,  _ are those tears? For God’s sakes, Timothy, grow up. You should know better than this. _

Bruce doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, Bruce turns to him and cups his cheeks, hard calloused palms and scarred fingers cradling his head, and he’s staring at Tim right in the eye, like he can’t quite figure him out. 

And then he says, slowly, carefully, as if the words are being written in the air with a shaking hand, “You’re not a bother to me. You're my  _ kid. _ Sweetheart, it’s my job to look after you. And make sure you’re safe. And happy.”

He bites his lip because being a job doesn’t sound like  _ not  _ being a burden, and Bruce huffs a breath of warm air and tugs him close into a proper hug.

“Kiddo,” the older man rumbles, his voice vibrating across his sternum, echoing deep inside his chest, “it’s an  _ honour  _ to take care of you. It’s an honour to see you growing up.”

Tim nods, sharp chin no doubt digging into Bruce’s shoulder, but receives no complaints. There is something hollow deep inside of him, something shattered and echoing, and he inhales and exhales and tries to breathe around it.

He’s such a fucking mess.

“Sorry.”

Bruce shushes him, starts carefully rubbing his hand up and down Tim’s back. This is  _ not  _ helping the whole  _ let’s avoid crying  _ thing.

“Don’t be.”

And for a minute, or maybe two, they sit in silence. They’re breathing not quite in sync, in and out and in again, and Tim bites back apologies- they keep wanting to come out, these days- and hides his flushed face and does not pull away.

But, eventually, the pressure building under his skin becomes too much.

“I’m okay. Really. I am.”

Bruce hardly misses a beat.

“Are you?”

The older man still hasn’t pulled away. The up and down motions on his back remind him, strangely enough, of Dick, stilted and awkward as they may be. If he were to bet who learned from who, there’s no question in his mind. So many of Bruce’s softer facets are only about because Bruce’s collar is tickling his nose, and his emotions are bunching up in a tangled string inside of his chest, and he feels his face screw up in something twisted and ugly, too.

But when he speaks, he doesn’t lie.

“No.”

It’s very soft. It’s very quiet. Tim feels like he’s just whispered out some dreadful secret, even though he knows, logically, that it’s  _ not. _

And Bruce hums. Awkward, stilted, heartfelt.

“Okay, chum. Okay. We’ll stay here. Just like this. Okay?”

Another nod. Sharp chin and warm shoulders. Breathing, in and out and in again. 

“You don’t have to be perfect, Tim. Not for me.”

Tim has memories scattered across the palms of his hands. His father’s smile, vague and distracted. His mother’s sharp eyes and sharper tongue, coiled with sweet words that meant next to nothing, in the end. A house, empty and quiet and cold.

_ Fuck that,  _ he thinks, and it’s a little vicious but it feels good to think. Feels good to feel.

This is not nothing. 

It  _ can’t _ be nothing. Tim won’t let it.

Drily swallowing, he hunches his shoulders up a bit in an awkward shrug. Bites the inside of his cheek.

Breathes.

He stitched up his own damned shrapnel wound a week ago. Asking for help, in comparison to that, should be nothing.

“I have some free time tomorrow.”

“Okay. We’ll get a new prescription then. I’ll call the clinic.”

Bruce offers so easily, so freely, and it reminds him that this is how it’s _ supposed  _ to be. Getting your guardian to look your way and spend time with you _ shouldn’t _ be like pulling teeth. It shouldn’t be an award for following the rules or a means of bribery. Attention, love, affection- they’re good things. They’re things that he should have had, once, without having to bargain for them. 

(His parents were wrong. They were  _ wrong. _ It’s a lesson he keeps relearning.)

Tim pulls away, tucks his fingers into the crooks of his elbows and offers another jagged little nod. Bruce smiles in his small, awkward way, eyes holding steady and blue, blue, blue-

"Do you want to watch Adventure Time?"

And despite everything, Tim finds himself laughing.

"Sure, Bruce. Let's watch Adventure Time.”

* * *

**BREAKING: RICHARD “DICK” GRAYSON COMES OUT AS PANSEXUAL**

* * *

_ hey _

_ can we talk? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some people we're like OOOH THEY GONNA BE SO MAD but nope i made it soft instead :)
> 
> TWO MORE CHAPTERS AAAAHHHHH


	34. just sock’em. Full superstrength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Child Neglect (past)

Tim’s leg bounces until Cass reaches over and presses her palm against his knee. She gives him a look, eyes piercing and reassuring all at once.

In the back, Duke and Stephanie are getting into an increasingly competitive game, their hands smacking together and clapping louder and faster as time goes on. There are intense expressions on both of their faces, the rhythmic tempo speeding up as each repeat grows longer.

Jason is driving, ignoring them and attempting to make small talk with Cullen, who in turn is complaining about a book he’s been assigned to read for English.

The car beneath them bounces with the rough road. Cass hasn’t stopped looking at him.

He wonders if she can see it, the exhaustion and worry bubbling under his skin. Knowing her, she probably can all too easily, but-

But-

There is reassurance in this, in how calmly her gaze holds his own.

Tim offers an attempt at a smile, and she pats his cheek before turning to look out the window, yellow headphones bright and garish when compared to the daybreak outside. In the back, Stephanie crows in victory when Duke messes up the pattern. Duke, on his part, curses, loudly, and their frantic claps die down briefly before another round begins.

They’ve been driving a few hours now. Somewhere ahead of them, tucked away in the ridges of the horizon, there’s a favoured camping site that the others are headed for. He’ll be joining them, eventually, but there’s something he has to do first.

Tim gets dropped off at the base of the nature reserve, climbing out of the van and swinging his backpack over his shoulders. Stephanie manages to smack a kiss to his cheek as he’s clambering out.

Jason rolls down his window, gives him a surveying look over his sunglasses.

“Have everything you need, squirt? Water bottle? Phone?”

Nodding, he pats his bag.

“Cool. Text when you’re ready for me to get you.”

There are waves all around as the car drives off, cheerful grins and supportive thumbs up. Despite everything, he finds himself rolling his eyes.

“We’ll save you some marshmallows!” Duke yells, voice fading-

And then they’re gone.

And Tim is alone.

But not for long. Not if he does what he's set out here to do.

Carefully, he breathes, starts clambering up into the nearby hills.

* * *

“So, um, you’ve probably guessed by now, that I didn’t exactly have the happiest childhood.”

Kon blinks, glances over at Tim who’s got his chin resting on his knees, curled up to take up as little space as possible. They’re on a hill in some sort of nature reserve, prickly grass and long shadows, and he wonders, briefly, how long Tim had just been sitting here before he had finally called Kon over. 

In the distance, the bright sun slowly dips into a softer dusk. It’s pretty, in some ways, all that open sky, but all Kon can really focus on is Tim’s tired eyes, the way all of his other features are sharp and lined and blank. He wonders if he’s gotten better at reading his boyfriend’s moods. He thinks that he _must_ have, to look at this living embodiment of tension and stress and see it for what it is, rather than buying the calm collected facade. 

Is there any good way to handle this? His fingers curl in on themselves: Conner knows all too well that sometimes he breaks things he means to manage gently.

In the end, all he can do is nod carefully.

“Yeah. I presumed.”

Presumed might be putting it a little lightly. There have been hours of his life devoted to worrying about the things that hurt his boyfriend before anyone was there to protect him.

And it’s not like Tim made it _easy,_ or anything, to spot that something was off. Tim’s good at what he does: he’s good at mimicking emotions and putting on masks and deflecting conversations that he doesn’t want to have.

But-

But you get to know people, after living with them for a year, being a part of the same team. Dating them. There are little things Tim does that leave Kon up in the middle of the night, _wondering._ Like the way he responds to criticism or failure, as if it was a sign of some terrible lack on his part. Or the way he responds to kindnesses, little meaningless gestures that should be expected and yet always have Tim smiling so soft and small and _surprised._

There are birds chirping in the trees, wind rustling through the grass. Tim still won’t look at him. 

Kon breathes. This is one of the many mysteries of his partner that he has wished for so long to be solved, but-

“You don’t have to tell me, though. If you don’t want to. If you’re not ready.”

(But it can wait.)

He gets a look, side-eyed. There are bags under Tim’s eyes that shouldn’t be there.

“And if I’m never ready? If I shove my entire childhood in a box and dump it into the ocean and don’t talk about it ever again?”

Licking his lips, Kon flops onto his back and looks up at the tree canopy above them. If he listens closely, he can hear the ants plodding up and down its great trunk, and there’s something oddly settling about it. “Well,” he starts, faltering and then pushing on strong, “I don’t think that would necessarily be healthy? But, uh, I could learn to live with it.”

Tim’s staring at him properly now, still sitting up, and the expression on his face is his _Oh My Gods You Are Such An Idiot And I Hate How Endearing I Find It_ look. It’s a throwback from back when they had first started dating, and the nostalgia of it would have made him smile if not for the fact his boyfriend is still crammed into himself like he’s containing an explosion.

“You’re not supposed to- Conner. You can’t just-”

He snarls, runs his hands over his face and then plants them firmly in his hair, tugging lightly. “I’ve been horrible and you’re supposed to be mad about it, you’re supposed to- Demand explanations! Or yell at me. Or- I dunno. _Something.”_

Kon frowns.

“I’m not saying that I’m not upset that you were ignoring me and stuff. Or that you kept brushing off meeting my family. I _was_ mad about that, and still am, kinda. It’s just that- I don’t want to force you to tell me stuff you’re not comfortable with sharing. With me.”

He lays down besides him, much more gracefully. Much more _carefully._ Conner realizes that Tim must still be feeling his injuries from that weekend of hell and winces guiltily. 

But then Tim starts talking again, and it’s all too easy to get distracted. 

“But I do. Want to share with you. I mean- you deserve to know, and it’s kind of just stupid stuff I probably should have, uh. I probably should have gotten over it by now, anyways. It’s been _years,_ and it wasn’t like I was ever really hurt, I’m just,” he gestures halfheartedly through the air, “messed up.”

Kon watches Tim do finger guns up at the sky and then frown at his own hands as if they betrayed him. It would be a lot funnier if his brow wasn’t pinched in stress.

“Okay,” he says, slowly, “then tell me. I’m listening.”

So Tim does, with a few faltering spits and starts, quite a few depriving jokes, and eyes firmly glued in the middle distance. He talks about impersonal nannies giving way to an empty house, the way his days spent alone stretched into weekends, and then into weeks. He talks about walking home in the rain for over an hour when his parents flew off to the Bahamas instead of picking him up from school. Lonely macaroni and cheese dinners paired with forging parent signatures and learning to work a credit card, with catching public transport to spend his nights chasing down vigilantes on Gotham rooftops. No one noticed him missing because no one was there to notice at all, and Tim was anything if not self sufficient.

It’s almost factual, as if he’s giving a mission report. As if it means _nothing,_ even while Kon sits there and wishes, cruelly, that Janet and Jack Drake were still alive, if only so that he could punch them in the face.

“And you couldn’t win,” and the words must be bitter, here, for them to come so short and sour from Tim’s mouth, “there was just no _winning_ with them. I threw a fit, once or twice, I think. Yelled about how they didn’t care about me, how they were always gone, and it just- suddenly the conversation was about how much I didn’t appreciate them, all the hard work they did to care about the family, to ensure the Drake legacy. Suddenly _I_ was the guilty party, I had hurt _their_ feelings, and, well, it never did any good, they always left again, so I stopped.”

If Kon could punch those fucking _bastards_ in the face, he’s not sure he would even hold back. He’d just sock’em. Full superstrength.

Tim clears his throat. When he speaks next, there is something fragile in his tone, like he’s still not fully convinced what he was saying was true, but really wanted to believe in it.

“So basically, uh, if I wanted attention I was being a burden. And it was- It was messed up. It was. It _was.”_

There’s a pause. Kon lays there absorbing the fact that his boyfriend’s parents were absolute abusive dipshits and tries to get a handle on the roiling emotions in his gut, because damn everything he’s going to get this _right_ and he can’t do that if he’s so pissed off he loses his head.

The silence stretches on too long. Tim starts talking again.

“I’m sorry. I just rambled at your face for like. Thirty minutes. And it’s besides the point, I just meant, I mean- I just meant to tell you that because of all, uh, _that,_ I don’t really handle people scrutinizing me really well. At all, basically. So you can imagine that the whole news frenzy was not very fun. And so I was super stressed and I was taking these new meds that just made me so out of it, all the time, and it’s _because_ I was out of control in the first place that those stupid fucking pictures leaked at the start of this whole thing and so I- I stopped. Taking them?”

Kon’s head shoots up, putting most of his weight on his forearms, and Tim’s shoulders crawl up to his chin, fingernails digging into his forearms.

“I have a new prescription, now. I’ll be starting next week. You don’t need to worry about it. Really, I’m fine, I just, well- I _wasn’t_ fine, earlier, I basically had kill bill sirens ringing around my head half the time from anxiety and felt like dying the other half, which isn’t, you know, great.” 

It’s so quiet, out here, when there’s no talking to fill the empty space. He should say something, anything, but what words are the right ones? What can he say to make any of this better?

He should have realized. His boyfriend had been suffering and he should have done something about it.

Fingernails dig into pale skin. Tim keeps talking.

“And I probably would have been fine, it was just- people kept looking at me. They kept looking and making assumptions and posting stupid pictures and comments on the internet, and then there was the bombings and people were _dying,_ and I didn’t know how to tell you that the thought of going to fucking- fucking _Smallville_ literally made me feel like I was having a panic attack and stuff just kept _happening,_ with you and with Masters and online and I kind of imploded. A little bit. Kinda. My brain noped out of there.”

There are so many things Kon could say, right here right now. There are so many things he _wants_ to say.

Instead, he grabs at his boyfriend’s hands, pulls them away from his forearms, gently, gently. Conner’s ready to back off, if Tim pulls away, but he doesn’t, and so Conner just tugs until Tim rolls over and they can face each other, grass scraping at their cheeks and setting sunshine.

“God, Tim, I’m so sorry.”

Tim frowns, opens his mouth-

But Kon shakes his head, shakes his head, squeezes the calloused palms in his grip softly. 

“Seriously, your parents sound like absolute shit and you definitely deserved so much better than what you got.”

An awkward shrug is all he gets in response.

“Not your fault.”

“I know, but- still. I’m sorry that you had to go through that. And I’m also sorry because I was being an ass.” Tim stares at him blankly, and it’s his turn to frown, to try and explain. “I _knew_ you weren’t having a great time. I could tell you were really stressed about everything and instead of being there for you, like a good partner should, I was just. Obsessing over Smallville and my parents. And I made stupid assumptions about your reasons why- when I should have trusted you to have _good_ reasons- and _then_ I started making all these terrible accusations and unfair demands, and it wasn’t right. And I’m sorry.”

It apparently doesn’t matter that he’s making complete logical sense, because Tim’s shaking his head, eyes narrowing in a glare even as he twists his wrists to properly interlink their fingers. 

“But I should have been communicating with you! _I_ should be apologizing because I was treating you like shit and giving you no context as to why I needed space or time or _anything_ . You’re not a mindreader: it wasn’t right of _me_ to just, expect you to be there without reason. It wasn’t right of me to treat you like that at all, even if I wasn’t doing so well in the mental health department. I’m sorry that that happened because you didn’t deserve it and I should have been better.”

The first instinct that comes to mind is to deny it, deny everything and put all the blame on himself. But Kon shoves that instinct aside and takes a deep breath instead. This is what he _wanted._ Talking. Communicating, and yes- just a little bit- an apology. 

Ignoring what Tim was saying would be just as unhelpful as not having any conversation at all.

He runs the words through his head, and then slowly nods.

“Okay, I- I hear you. But I’m not totally blameless here, either. I should have respected your boundaries more, or something. It was pretty clear that Smallville was upsetting to you but I kept pushing. And then my temper got the best of me and so I also basically threw all your insecurities in your face, even though it took you a lot of trust to share them with me. And when you _did_ try to reach out to me, I hung up on you.”

“But you were only _like_ that because I had driven you to that point, because _I_ was being a stupid asshole.”

“But! There was so much on your plate that was making your life a living hell and as your partner I should have been there to support you! You’ve helped me through so much and-”

“But _you didn’t know-”_

They’re going in circles. The realization seems to come to both of them at once, because the conversation plateaus as quickly as it heated up, leaving them quiet and close and still holding each other’s hands.

God, Kon has missed holding Tim’s hand. And kissing him when he doesn’t expect it, just to watch his nose scrunch up adorably. And hanging out with him at the tower, where Bart and Cassie make fun of them even as they dive head first into ridiculous shenanigans. He misses Tim: sleep soft and napping or energetic and rambling or focused and devoting all his energy to a cause. 

He misses his _boyfriend._ He misses being Tim’s boyfriend. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes, while both of them think it over.

Finally, Tim lets out a slow breath, leans forward slightly so he can press his forehead against Kon’s.

“So,” he says, very tentatively, very softly, and his eyes are so, so blue. “So, it sounds like I’m sorry. And you’re sorry. We’re both sorry. For what it’s worth, I forgive you.” His boyfriend swallows dry, fingers flexing. “I’ll try to communicate more, to- to tell you when I’m feeling crap. I mean. If you’ll still have me.”

And-

Kon snorts, pulls Tim into a proper hug. It reminds him, vaguely, of that night on Lois’ couch, stretched out and covered in grime and tired to the bone, except this exhaustion is more of an emotional kind than anything else.

But the relief is there. The softness of the moment is captured here, lying on some hill that may as well be the edge of the world.

“Of course I’ll have you,” he murmurs into Tim’s shoulder, and holds him close. The grass is making his skin itch. The leaves are whispering with the soft breeze, the sun only just peaking up above the horizon. “Of course I forgive you. You’re _Tim.”_

There’s a choked laugh. Kon holds on tighter.

 _I love you,_ he thinks, _I love you I love you I love you._

And he does. He does because Tim is brilliant and _alive_ and full of snark and so much passion for what he does. But also because Tim eats raw ramen just for the texture and gets ridiculously competitive over the stupidest things. Because he snorts when he laughs too hard and his coffee consumption is directly correlated to his levels of stress. Because he hoards other people’s clothing and can sit for hours watching birds and always, always gets emotional at the end of _Meet the Robinsons._

It’s ridiculous how much Conner loves him, the big things and the stupid things. Even when Tim’s annoying or frustrating or making him tear his own hair out, he doesn’t think he could let him go.

They’re a team. Partners.

“Hey,” Tim says, and when he smiles it’s like his very own spot of sunshine, “I love you.”

Kon laughs.

“What a coincidence, I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much talking! But they needed it <3
> 
> ONE MORE CHAPTER!!!!


	35. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter friends T.T

“Dick. You didn’t have to do this for me.”

_ “Hey. Hey. Don’t you dare feel guilty. I forbid it, okay? It was my choice, and it wasn’t even all that a hard one. I was thinking of doing it even before the whole thing with you went down, and this way I’m doing some good with it.” _

“But-”

_ “Nope, no buts. That’s it. Let me take care of you, okay? I got this.” _

“...Okay.”

_ “Okay. Besides, now I can openly bring two dates to a gala and watch Bruce freak out because of the double potential for a broken heart.” _

“Oh my gods, Dick-”

* * *

_ THE. WAYNES. ARE. ALL. GAY. _

_ i knew it i knew it none of you believed me but i KNEW IT. _

_ just because we have two confirmed gays don’t mean they all gay hun _

_ Actually we have one confirmed Bisexual and one confirmed Pansexual thank. you. Very. much. _

_!!!!!!! _

_ Dick Grayson.... My Beloved. _

_ this is just so classic. stuff was dying down around timothy so they do another attention grabbing thing with Grayson grown some fucking eyes _

_ Hey hey, look at me- _

_ STOP BEING A HOMOPHOBE OR I’LL REMOVE YOUR NOSTRILS _

_ I’m so used to giving but now I get to recieve T.T T.T T.T _

_ dick baby welcome to the pan community we love you _

_ honestly i’m so happy people are gonna start focusing on Dick again i was going crazy with all the tim on my dash _

_ Dick Grayson is so hot and i am so- _

_ I _

_ I am _

_ it’s okay take your time _

_ Gay. pretty boy *explosions* _

_ AAAAAAHHHHHHH _

_ May I Introduce You To Our Lord And Saviour Dick Grayson _

_ this is legitmately the redemption arc this year needed. More gay beans ehhhhhh _

_ Hey! Hey Metropolis!? How you doing over there with your billionaires :) :) :) How’s Lex Luther, huh? :) _

_ *grumble grumble* shut up Gotham _

_ Never :) _

_ he’s so fucking hot what the fuck what the fuck _

_ i got to be dreaming right? Someone fucking pinch me YES i have a chance to be with Dick grayson YES _

_ <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 _

_ Dick Grayson spotted!! Leaving the supermarket!! With Damian Wayne! _

_ He’s sucha good big bro i’m gonna cryyyy _

_ Was someone going to tell me that not only is Dick Grayson pan, he’s in a poly relationship, or was I supposed to figure that out obsessively watching interviews myself???? _

_ Look me in the eye, repeat after me: just because Dick Grayson isn’t a minor doesn’t mean it’s okay to hypersexualize him and treat him like an object instead of a human being _

_ that ass thoooo _

_ PAN DICK GRAYSON! PAN DICK GRAYSON! PAN DICK GRAYSON! _

_ it just means so much to me i’m gonna cry _

_ im so glad there’s a new pan boi about it was getting uqiet around here _

_ uqiet _

_ uqiet _

_ Uqiet _

_ uqiet _

_ well fuck you all too _

_ And just when you figure he can’t get better turns out he’s gay :D _

_ kmibuITYfuyGIUHnjmkjtgyiujg fde57d6uituyTGFUYIPANSEXUAL _

_ the next big Gay Wayne Reveal will be three months from now. We will have the Complete Set _

_ Like to charge reblog to cast _

_ i love him i love him i love him _

_ I want to know more about Dick’s partners? Who are they? What is their relationship like? _

_ reminder that being pan is not biphobic, and anyone who says otherwise is a fuckwad <3 _

_ me?? Make five hundred gifs of Dick Grayson in various outfits looking fly as hell?? What?? Nooooo i would neverrr _

_ Where are the gifs op _

_ WHERE ARE THE GIFS _

_ here you are!! _

_ I owe you my life _

_ wonder how tim is dealing with all this? you think he’s sad he’s no longer in the spotlight? _

* * *

“Turquoise.”

An evil grin spreads across Harper’s face, and she cheerfully glances at Tim even as she starts shoving Kon under the water. “Nope!” she yells, and Tim helps by shoving his boyfriend’s head the rest of the way down.

Stephanie’s wet hair smacks him in the face with his enthusiasm. It’s well worth it.

Conner comes back sputtering. Floating on his back deeper in the pool, Bruce looks distinctly amused. At least he has the grace to not be obvious about it: Cullen is smirking from where he is sitting next to Barbara on the lounge chairs, eyes occasionally flitting over, and Duke is outright cackling.

“Fuckin’- maroon!”

Wrong answer. They dunk him again, cool splashing water and shared laughter. Tim is manhandling one side while Harper cradles the other, Stephanie holding their victim’s shoulders, creating a human basket of sorts. Kon wipes water out of his eyes when he re-emerges, a petulant frown on his lips, but there’s a smile threatening to peek out underneath. 

“Wait, wait- give me a second, I’m running out of colours-”

To be fair, they do give him a second. Kon thinks, nose scrunching up-

“You’re taking too long!” Stephanie singsongs, and then they’re tipping him backwards once more.

Tim’s laughing himself, now. Something about Kon’s token indignance is sparking amusement in his chest: it’s a ridiculous game, but it’s a Wayne Family classic. Dick had first introduced it with Jason, and it has since withheld the tests of time.

“Why couldn’t we just play Marco Polo? Like normal people?” Kon says when they bring him back up, the muscles in his arms and legs shifting. He doesn’t actually sound bothered though, nor is he really trying to get away. 

Even by his own standards Tim would rate the grin on his face as incredibly sharklike.

“My good sir, you should know by now that this is not a normal family.”

Kon groans when they shove him back under, and Duke’s chortles become breathless wheezing. Bruce lets out one of his soft huffs of laughter, the ones that are nearly silent but very, very real.

Babs murmurs something in Cullen’s ear, and his brother snorts loudly, hands flying up to cover his face even as the woman bursts into her own spring of joy. high and loud and bright.

“Uh, uuuuhhhh, puce?”

“Sorry!” And down he goes.

(The colour is mustard yellow. It takes precisely twenty four more dunks, seven hints, and a lot of cursing for Conner to shout out the answer and then tackle them both in turn.)

* * *

Kon blinks when he enters the Titan’s lounge, taking in how the entire floor seems to be in chaos. Couches overturned, clutter on every available surface, mess all over the place. 

He tilts his head. The potatoes are new.

Bart comes zooming in, coming to a jarring stop mere inches away from a mass collision zone. In his hand he holds a giant, neon gun thing.

“Behold!” he shouts. Loudly. “My greatest creation!”

It’s in this moment that Cassie and Tim come racing into the room themselves, eyes wide and excited.

“It’s a real life potato launcher!” Cassie exclaims, and Bart pulls the trigger to emphasize the point. A resounding thump from the root vegetable meeting kitchen island permeates the room.

Tim reaches out to tug at his fingers for a second. “Alfred brought over too many potatoes,” he says solemnly, as if that explains  _ anything. _ Kon peers a little closer and can see the amusement building up in his boyfriend’s gaze.

He turns to Bart.

“Can you build three more?”

And Bart blinks, blinks, even as Cassie begins to rub her hands together with a shit-eating grin growing across her face. Then the speedster’s eyes light up in understanding, and he shoves the potato gun into Tim’s chest in order to reach up and clasp both of Kon’s cheeks in the palms of his hands.

“You, my fine sir, are a  _ genius.  _ I could kiss you right now! _ ” _

“I’d rather you didn’t, actually,” his boyfriend says, mildly, and Cassie snorts.

Kon leans over and kisses Tim instead, and there’s a distinct smile to the curve of his lips even as Cassie and Bart groan obnoxiously in the background.

_ Worth it,  _ he thinks,  _ definitely worth it. _

* * *

They’re in a tree, somewhere on the manor grounds, high enough up that their heads poke up above the rest of the surrounding forest. These are old oaks, healthy and  _ huge,  _ and it’s much easier to climb to the very top when you know you have an invulnerable flying boyfriend to catch you if any branch gives way underneath. 

The air is crisp up here, clear. Tim breathes it in and sits with it.

“So,” he says, “Smallville.”

Conner perks up like a dog spotting a squirrel, all his focus tuning in. 

Tim fidgets, plucks at a splinter in his palm and feels surprisingly calm.

He knows that his boyfriend has been patient with him. Giving him space. Giving him  _ time.  _ Things are settling down, now, with the media attention off his back and the new meds in his system. Everyone’s been trying so hard to be there for him, not just Kon, and it means so much, it does, even if he’s not good at putting it into words.

But he’s trying, too.

And he’s going to try with this.

Tim clears his throat and readjusts on rough bark. He can do this. He can  _ do  _ this.

“I have some. Troubles. With parents, as you know.”

Luckily, Kon doesn’t say anything and instead chooses to simply nod. He’d lose his nerve if Kon started saying soft words again, tinged with righteous anger. The unabridged support on his behalf tends to leave him flailing.

“And it’s not even just  _ my  _ parents. I mean- they didn’t like me, obviously, but adults in general don’t tend to like me. There’s a  _ reason  _ I dropped out of in person school when I did, and even Bruce I had to blackmail into keeping me around. And I guess what I’m trying to say here-”

He pauses, breathes. Crisp cool air and rough bark beneath him. It’s grounding, even this far up.

“I didn’t want your parents to hate me, either. Because I know their importance to you, and I didn’t want to force you to have to… choose, if things went wrong. If it was them or me.”

Internally, Tim cringes. It sounds kind of pathetic and illogical to him now, the idea that the people who raised  _ Superman  _ would be so cruel, that the people who Kon loves so much would be like that. But just a few short weeks ago the panic that accompanied those thoughts had been all too real, clogging his throat. Just because it doesn’t make much sense didn’t mean his brain couldn’t latch onto it and use it as fuel for the fire.

Even now, there is some tiny learned part of him that insists that it must be true.

_ Shut up,  _ he thinks at it.  _ Asshole. _

Kon grabs his hand, and after a precarious moment of wiggling they’re even balanced enough to let it stay held.

“They won’t hate you,” Kon says, and licks his lips. “I know it’s not really that easy to convince your brain of that, but they won’t.”

Tim nods. Tilts his head back and breathes.

Warm fingers hold his own tight, and he lets it be.

* * *

“So,” Kon says, and flattens shepherds pie across his plate, meshing potato and meat in one long field. Jon hands him the pepper and salt without asking, and he hums his thanks. “I’ve been talking with Tim.”

Martha immediately perks up.

“Yeah? Is he coming over then?”

Awkward shrug time. He lets his shoulders rise and fall in a quick little jerk, and then shoves some food in his mouth to give him time to think. How to phrase this?

Finally, carefully, he settles on saying, “He needs a little more time, I think. It’s been hard, with everything, and we’re still working through it.”

A hand reaches out and pats his arm, old and calloused and steady. When he looks up, Jon’s face is nothing but kindness.

“He can take all the time he needs, son. And so can you. You don’t get to be this old without learning to be patient!”

Kon and Martha meet each other's gaze and roll their eyes simultaneously. There is something to be said for family solidarity.

There is also something to be said for the warmth growing in Kon’s chest. The softness of it, and comforting weight. Easy acceptance, kindness and patience, these are all things that he has learned to love. It feels good to receive it, to know that Tim is recieving it. 

It feels good.

* * *

This gala is  _ endless.  _

Tim, Damian, and Cass are all hiding in the corner like the gremlin introverts they are. Bruce won’t force them to leave- even he’s not so cruel- but if he does spot them he’ll give a disappointed look that might just be worse.

They’re being rather careful not to be spotted. They have snacks Dick had foisted on them last time he had checked in, right before he had vanished again to hang out with his dates and entertain the masses, easy smiles and easy chatter.

_ Extroverts. _

He glances at his phone. Two more hours, and then they can go home.

“Tt.”

Damian has been prickly the entire time, this being his first public appearance after injuring his knee- mostly because he had been stupid and  _ reinjured  _ it after refusing to take things easy. 

Tim doesn’t exactly blame him. This gala is a bore: they don’t even have decent music. Or good food, for that matter.

He sighs.

Somewhere amongst a crowd of socialites, Brucie lets loose a big laugh. Somewhere else, Dick’s voice takes on an edge for some reason or another, excusing himself from a conversation.

Probably a bigot. Tim would go help, but-

Somewhere in their smallest member, a decision is made. 

He watches as Damian’s shoulders suddenly straighten and then slump. In seconds, his youngest brother is the picture perfect image of a dejected eleven year old. 

And then Damian leaves their safe haven and marches up to Bruce. He says something, lost in the noise of the crowd. Besides him, Cass has started to smile-

Bruce nods, ushers him towards Dick, and starts walking in a brisk direction, probably to get his coat. Damian’s act holds up until the man turns around, and then the slightest of smiles grows on his features, smug to the trained eye. Tim, on his part, is rather flabbergasted, because what the  _ hell  _ was that?

All answers are revealed when Damian slides up next to Dick and casually, expectantly holds his fist up. Their oldest brother glances at Bruce’s retreating back, at the waiting offer for a handshake-

And laughs, reaching out to reciprocate.

Getting out of the gala early is well worth Damian’s supremely pleased shit eating grin the entire ride home.

* * *

They're sitting on the couches of the small living room, quiet and comfortable and still. Conner doesn't even notice when Clark glances up from where he's reading a book and then does a double take, smiling.

"You're humming," he says. Kon looks up with a start.

"Huh?"

"You. You're humming. Happy about something?"

Kon pauses, thinking, and realizes that he has, in fact, been humming for the last few minutes. He hadn't even noticed.

Despite himself, red creeps up his neck. Of all the biological things that mimic humans, blushing is by far the worse.

"Nah, nothing specific" he says, "life is just really good in general right now." With a start, he realizes that it's the truth.

Huh.

Clark smiles.

"Good."

And then the smoke alarm starts beeping and Lois lets out a groan from her bedroom. "How is it," she calls out, "there are two beings with super senses in this house right now and both couldn't smell our dinner burning?"

Kon trades a panicked look with Clark and they both race to the kitchen.

* * *

“Why do I always let you do this? Why?”

“Because you love it?”

_ “No.” _

“Because you love me?”

Tim hisses.

This high up, the air is freezing cold and wet as hell. He’s damp and chilled to the bone, only somewhat saved by his uniform, and Superboy is  _ laughing  _ at him.

Flying can be wonderful. It’s incredibly practical for long distance relationships, and very useful in a fight. 

Right now he’s cursing it’s name.

He groans. Loudly.

Kon frowns down at him, hair whipping back and forth by the wind. The sunshine is bright enough behind his boyfriend’s head that his mask is compensating for it, leaving a slight hazy tinge. 

“Well,” Superboy says, “If you’re going to be like that-”

And he drops Tim out of the sky.

This is not a new position for Red Robin. He reorients himself spread eagled in moments, meanwhile cursing himself for not holding on tighter, for letting himself be talked into coming up here in the first place. The adrenaline rushes through him almost as fast as the ground seems to zoom closer.

Then Kon is there, floating underneath him, falling at an equal pace just out of reach. Tim mouths  _ “Fuck you,”  _ over the whistling wind and Kon laughs, bright and happy. 

_ Don’t smile,  _ Tim thinks,  _ Don’t you dare smile. _

Kon can definitely tell that he is smiling.

Tim angles himself, reaches down and catches on to his boyfriend’s neck in what has become a rather familiar motion. In seconds, Superboy’s hands are wrapped around his waist, and then they’re slowing, floating in midair.

The adrenaline thrums underneath his skin.  _ Alive,  _ his heart pounds,  _ alive alive alive. _

“Again?” Kon asks, grin wide and excited and bright-

“Fine,” Tim says, and rolls his eyes beneath his mask. 

But when they fly skyward, both of them are whooping.

* * *

Dick is half splayed across the couch, his breathing steady and even underneath Tim’s shoulder. The end credits on the screen for the final Lord of the Rings movie are dramatic and probably a little too loud for this late at night, but it seems false to shut off such majestic music, so he lets it be. 

“I can’t feel my  _ bones _ ,” Dick groans.

Tim hums in agreement. Reaches up to swipe at his grimy eyes, which feel dry after such a long time of staring at the screen without blinking. He accidentally kicks the popcorn bowl off the end of the couch in the process, and winces as it clatters against the carpet.

“Ah, sorry-”

“’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

There is quiet for a moment, as the notes swell and fall. Tim should probably get up and stretch (they’ve been marathoning the trilogy for hours, now) but he’s comfortable, and sleepy, and it would be so easy to just- 

“Hey, Tim.”

“Hmm?”

“Status report. How’ve you been feeling lately? Your meds treating you alright?”

Slowly, he peeks one eye open to peer up at Dick, who meets his gaze steadily. Tim realizes, with a tentative softness in his chest, that no matter what his answer was to this question, Dick would still be there come morning. Tim could tell him he felt like shit and Dick would stay by his side and help him through it, step by step.

It’s a good realization. An important one.

But the thing is, Tim doesn’t feel like shit. He really doesn’t. Sure, every once in a while things get overwhelming, and he slips into a spiral of anxiety and stress. Even with proper medication, his brain is not a perfect one.

The difference is that there are checkpoints, now, before he gets too far. It’s so fucking hard, but he’s been trying to reach out more, to let himself be supported more, and it makes handling things just that much easier.

Little victories, small captured moments. They mean something, in all this quiet dark.

“Actually,” he murmurs, and there’s something warm and brilliant growing in his chest, “I’m doing good. Really good.”

Dick tugs him closer, plants a kiss on his forehead.

“That makes me so happy to hear, kiddo, you have no idea.” 

(Looking at the relief shining in his older brother’s eyes, Tim thinks he does.)

* * *

It takes a few months to get to Smallville.

The door is unadorned and simple, well-worn from age and use but clearly still sturdy, even after all these years. Tim stands outside of it and flexes his fingers, shifts his stance.

He’s nervous, just a little bit. The feeling tingles up and down his spine.

Kon grabs his hand, holds it tight and shares a smile.  _ You can do this,  _ his eyes say.  _ I love you _ .  _ It’s okay if you need to leave. _

But Tim breathes, breathes. The nerves making their way under his skin are only just that: nerves. This is something that he wants to do. Something that he is almost excited to do, for Kon, of course, who has been so patient, but also for himself.

It’s about growth, he thinks. It’s about finding healing and making it. A year ago he would have been in a panic, standing here, and now he reaches out to knock with his free hand, no shaking fingers in sight.

There’s a rustling from inside.

The door opens.

Martha’s face is practically split with her grin, warm and wide and welcome. Jonathan is already reaching out for a handshake, or perhaps a hug. Kon by his side may as well be the sun, with all the joy dancing in his eyes.

“Oh!” Martha says, “We’re so happy to finally meet you!”

And Tim smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was honestly such a journey. The google docs I'm working on has reached 225 pages and keeps freezing, so it's probably a good thing we're stopping here.
> 
> Thank you. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this, who left kudos, who left comments. Thank you to the people who would chat with me in long threads and those who diligently commented on every update. Thank you for sticking with this story and the occasional hiatus, and all your love and support.
> 
> I hope anyone who can relate with Tim in this fic finds the people they need to face the struggles they're going through right now. As someone who has experienced pretty rotten strings of depression, I've been there, my friend, and I know that it is hard. But also, also, I went on a walk with my friends yesterday, barefoot, and the grass was cold but the sun was bright, and it meant something to me. I promise you life has so many wonderful things waiting for you. They are not always big, these things, but they are beautiful nonetheless. I hope you stay long enough to find them, and I hope they fill you with joy.
> 
> Take your meds. Talk with professionals. Let the people who love you be there for you: I promise you are not a burden. I promise that even if you are, you are a weight worth carrying. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Stay safe. *hugs*

**Author's Note:**

> Weekly Updates!  
> *With the occasional added bi-weekly update!


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